


Talk To Me

by mattysmurdick



Category: Iron Man (Comics), Iron Man (Movies), Marvel, Marvel (Comics), Marvel Cinematic Universe, Spider-Man (Tom Holland Movies), Spider-Man - All Media Types, The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types
Genre: Avengers: Endgame (Movie), Avengers: Endgame (Movie) Spoilers, Awkward Crush, Canonical Character Death, Cats, Character Death, Flirting, Fluff, Harley's smart, I saw Far From Home, I'm going with something different, Iron Lad identity reveal, M/M, Not Complaint with Spider-Man Far From Home's Mid-Credits Ending, Peter Parker Feels, Peter's Anxious, Post-Avengers: Endgame (Movie), Post-Iron Man 3, Post-Spider-Man: Homecoming, Pre-Spider-Man: Far From Home (Movie), Spider-Man Identity Reveal, also kinda gay, assload of tags, harley's a little depressed, harley's got a stick up his ass, hate but its actually jealousy and pent up feelings, he needs a hug, hes also dramatic and sad, i'm stupid keep scrolling, im trying to be funny here., its dramatic, no, not really - Freeform, peter is sad, two dumbasses
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-05-15
Updated: 2019-09-02
Packaged: 2020-03-06 02:21:54
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Major Character Death
Chapters: 6
Words: 27,749
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18841678
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mattysmurdick/pseuds/mattysmurdick
Summary: Five years feeling every minute of being nothing more than dust does something to you. In and out of words. Seeing death and feeling nothing - like a hibernation where you’re half awake and half dreaming.The child form of his younger self thought he’d see him all the time.The child form of his younger self, just a little older, eventually thought that he’d never see Tony with Peter in the picture.His current self is regretting the lost time that he’ll never get to make up.





	1. If You do Someone a Solid...

**Author's Note:**

> Contains Avengers: Endgame Spoilers. 
> 
> Wrote this with the song Talk to Me by Cavetown in mind... suggested by a friend. 
> 
> Guess you really can't watch Endgame without writing some sort of fiction right? Or at least think something about it. Watched it early, stunned, still thinking about it. Best way to procrastinate is to write Fan Fiction when you're studying for finals right?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Five years feeling every minute of being nothing more than dust does something to you. In and out of words. Seeing death and feeling nothing - like a hibernation where you’re half awake and half dreaming.  
> The child form of his younger self thought he’d see him all the time.  
> The child form of his younger self, just a little older, eventually thought that he’d never see Tony with Peter in the picture.  
> His current self is regretting the lost time that he’ll never get to make up.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Contains Avengers: Endgame Spoilers. 
> 
> Wrote this with the song Talk to Me by Cavetown in mind... suggested by a friend. 
> 
> Guess you really can't watch Endgame without writing some sort of fiction right? Or at least think something about it. Watched it early, stunned, still thinking about it. Best way to procrastinate is to write Fan Fiction when you're studying for finals right?

###### Summary:

It recoils in his throat, the lunch and breakfast he didn’t have. Bile right there on the back of his tongue. It stings, it’s nasty. He swallows thickly. Looking around at all the faces. Some solemn, tears being cried, some heads hanging low, some looking to the sky as if they’re trying to find some answer. But most of them staring straight ahead, to the casket, eyes shining, lips pulled into a respectable, trained frown.  
Harley wants to scream - hell, he can hear it building up in his throat, echoing in his head. This isn’t fair. If interest didn’t take people away from him, death always had to...

* * *

_You don’t have to be a hero to save the world._  
_It doesn’t make you a narcissist to love yourself._  
_It feels like nothing is easy._  
_It will never be._

 

The air is cold and it feels good to breathe, fill his tired lungs with crisp air. Force himself to think about each hollow breath, force himself to slowly blink his eyes then struggle to keep them open. It feels good to force himself to do these things. But it was also terrible, because it was a crisp morning, and part of the world does not appear to be aware that it has just ended. The cars are still driving in the distance, people are still going on dates and grabbing coffee, going grocery shopping, while some are hugging the restored pieces of their families. Their lives finally make sense, they still have purpose...in a world without Tony Stark. 

Harley takes in a slow deep breath, standing beneath the canopy of trees and surrounded by faces, very few of which he’d actually spoken to. Each person dressed in some form of black. Remaining politely and respectfully quiet. Some heads bowed, some lifted. All facing forwards towards a rectangular, glossy black box on a stand, white fabric spilling neatly from the mouth in an invitation laced with mockery. 

This was supposed to be a celebration for the renewal of the world. Like a phoenix gone up in flames to be reborn. Mourn the death and celebrate the rebirth. Some thought of funerals as a place where people were supposed to be celebrating and many hoped that they would celebrate their death.

But each was the same. Silence. The occasional sniffle of tears, rustling of tissues. The soft, awkward cough. A time for “respect” and “celebration”, his ass. If the man himself were walking among them he’d tap his glass and blast AC/DC. Something like that. Anything to stop the silence that threatened to choke them all.

Standing there in front of Harley, clad in black suit and brown curly hair, was the young protege himself...Peter Parker. Up there in the front, next to Miss Pepper. Morgan. Next the few people that Harley knew were the closest to the man. 

But none of that really matters right now. What matters is the tears that are beginning to sting at his eyes, threatening to spill over onto his cheeks. What matters is how hard he’s clenching his teeth, biting at his cheeks and tongue. What matters is the way his fingernails push into the back of his hand and the palm of the other hand. What matters is the tight marble he’s desperately trying to swallow down. What matters is the empty, cold feeling in his chest. What matters is the boiling and churning of his stomach. 

What matters is the man lying in the open casket, arms crossed over his chest. Eyes closed. 

If they were open it would’ve been worse. Void of the snark responses that were on the tip of his tongue, ready to be said - void of the brain of a mechanic, gears whirring quickly and effortlessly as the train of thought ran the tracks of the mind. 

Nights late in the shitty garage Harley prided himself on… a few of those nights in the lab of Tony Stark himself. Late nights fueled by a lethal mixture of coffee and redbull, Coca-Colas, donuts and pizza fresh from the box, and sarcasm in its purest most tired form. They’d faded, over the few years. Until recently, at least. In the past year when Tony decided to remember the kid he’d met in the shitty garage in the snow, so many years ago. Maybe not several, just about six or seven, but they still mattered. Still mattered to him. He’d never get to have any of those nights again. 

Yeah. Maybe it hurt a little more than just a little. Harley’s stomach started to hurt. Once again his attention was directed to the mop of messy, curly, chocolate brown hair that belonged to the kid up front. 

_‘Why is **he** standing there…’_

The thought’s bitter. It echoes in his mind like some sort of sickeningly sour candy, a coating around something bitter and vomit-flavored. The type of candy that idiots challenge each other to keep in their mouths for X amount of minutes for Y amount of money. 

The famous _Spider-Man._ Wasn’t he there? With Tony, in the battle? Why didn’t the all famous _Spider-Man_ save him, if he’s so favored and praised. Did Spider-Man let him die? Is that how he repays Tony Stark for taking him under his wing? That it? 

It recoils in his throat, the lunch and breakfast he didn’t have. Bile right there on the back of his tongue. It stings, it’s nasty. He swallows thickly. Looking around at all the faces. Some solemn, tears being cried, some heads hanging low, some looking to the sky as if they’re trying to find some answer. But most of them staring straight ahead, to the casket, eyes shining, lips pulled into a respectable, trained frown.

Harley wants to scream - hell, he can hear it building up in his throat, echoing in his head. This isn’t _fair_. If interest didn’t take people away from him, _death_ always had to come after him. 

Like some curse. 

_‘Yeah, so your father left you. Don’t be a pussy about it.’_

The words echoed in his mind, a voice not his own. Memory? Definitely. Clear as crystal on the cold snowy night after he’d fired his only potato and shattered the glass cup up at the corner of the garage without missing a single beat. Same night Iron Man wandered into his shed and let him tear a finger off the suit. Heh. Let him… 

Don’t be a pussy about it. If he were here, Mr. Snark’d probably say something like that. Clap everyone on the back. Shrug, say something sarcastic and snarky with that charm of his. Take everyone out to Shawarma. No big deal, move on. 

_If he were here…_

Harley’s head had sunk to look down. Everyone is standing in groups, he realizes. Everyone has someone. A shoulder to cry on. No one’s standing in their own thoughts alone because the thoughts are being shared, like some witch’s boiling brew. That in a way everyone feels connected through him. 

In the same breath, Harley shouldn’t be here, should he? 

No, he’s more than deserving. He knows it, too. 

It’s just that the silent side glances he’s getting are speaking volumes. 

He’s reminded of the time he saved Tony. No one here knew it at all, and he knows that by their skepticisms. Why couldn’t he have been there this time. His hands fall from their folded position in front of him, to his sides. His fists curl up, and his nails dig deep into the palms of his hands.  
Tony Stark saved the universe without a second thought. 

And now that universe, some of who, will never know him… 

Is moving on without him.

Harley looks forwards. He can’t dwell on the several times he’s saved Tony Stark, and the fact that no one here knows it. 

_‘If you do someone a solid, don’t be a yutz, alright, just play it cool, otherwise you come off grandiose.’_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> That's alright.  
> Let it out.  
> Talk to me.


	2. We're Connected

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Again, guess it's difficult _not_ to write some sort of fanfiction about Endgame because it's a few days away from a month and well I'm still destroyed.  
> Oh well!  
> Still waiting for the Endgame memes to roll in. It was faster with Infinity War I guess.
> 
> * * *
> 
> _Five years feeling every minute of being nothing more than dust does something to you. In and out of words. Seeing death and feeling nothing - like a hibernation where you’re half awake and half dreaming._  
>  The child form of his younger self thought he’d see him all the time.  
> The child form of his younger self, just a little older, eventually thought that he’d never see Tony with Peter in the picture.  
> His current self is regretting the lost time that he’ll never get to make up.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I realized that part of what I was writing was incorrect... (it's been two weeks since I saw Endgame the second time, please cut me slack). but i headcannoned that there was some sort of open casket for Tony in the first place. I also assumed it was in a different part of the woods before they took the coffin away... it's explained more in this chapter. 
> 
> Again, I really didn't expect myself to be delving into it as much and I know that one day I'm going to look back on this and shake my head, but in the now, I'm enjoying writing it. So I hope it provides some sort of entertainment for you, reading this!

###### Summary:

“Daddy said he’d sell all my toys if I didn’t sleep one time,” Morgan says, giggling as she lifts a plush white bunny and shoves it in Harley’s face. He couldn’t not smile at this, and even if he didn’t want to, he had to smile for her. “I think he is gonna bring back more toys from his tall toy closet,” she grins happily, pulling the bunny back before placing it gently in his arms. She doesn’t understand... and it’s going to hit her like a rock when she realizes that dead means forever. 

* * *

_You don’t have to be a prodigy to be unique._  
_You don’t have to know what to say or what to think.._  
_You don’t have to be anybody you can never be._  


The sky is a dulled gray-blue, as though the artist mixed a little too much gray and decided to go with it. Then decided the color wasn’t what they wanted but it still created something beautiful. It’s seen through the canopy of trees, leaves and pine needles and all. Though no one is really paying attention. Everyone seems too frozen to do anything like that.

Miss Potts - or, now that Harley realizes it… Mrs. Stark (he can’t do it. Not yet. He decides to stick with Ms. Pepper), turns around, slowly, holding the hand of a little girl he’d met earlier… Morgan Stark. He had introduced himself. 

“My name is Harley.”

“My daddy told me about you! He weally loves you!” It was a little too much. He felt his heart squeezing in his chest. 

Morgan looks up at him with a little smile, before looking forwards. Pepper looks to him, and Harley looks up at her. She takes his hand, then begins walking away from the casket...to proceed with the next part of the fune- celebration. Harley walks with her. 

He doesn’t miss the slightly confused look on Peter Parker’s face as he turns his head to follow in pursuit. 

Harley never expected it to happen. But as he and Pepper walk, he looks up towards her. He’s grown since they last spoke. 

At least, he’d like to say that he had.

He had come to visit her after the incident in New York, with the aliens and such. They spoke in one of Tony’s towers. Sitting on the couches, opposite ends, catching up. He missed talking to her. But it was when he his body has suddenly felt like it stopped working. It was when he knit his eyebrows together, and looked down at his hand, then up to Pepper to see her horrified expression…

Watching yourself fall apart piece by piece, vaporizing into dust. It’s not something that’s easy to recover from. Sometimes Harley still felt the loss of feeling in different parts of his body. He’d re-feel the way he felt himself slowly grow numb, poked with a thousand needles…

Here they were, walking through the woods. And behind them, people were beginning to follow. Harley lets go of her hand, vouching inside to close his fist gentle, bending his elbow at his side. Pepper takes his arm as they walk. It’s quiet. 

Blades of grass crumble then jump back up beneath Harley’s feet as he walks. Face pointed about a half a foot in front of his own feet. How ironic, he thinks, that the blades are crushed, trampled on… _demolished_. But still, they bounce back up. Black oxford meet dark wood of cabin. Harley lifts his knees to climb the stairs and go into the house. His hand moves out, trails against the doorframe as he walks inside, of course letting Pepper goes first, holding the door open for her. 

The inside of the cabin is simple yet so much like Tony and Pepper. The couch, homey, the fireplace lit. The kitchen still with a few dishes that need to be washed. A blanket unfolded and on the stairs - probably Morgan’s. It’s been cleaned, he can tell because of the few times he’s had visitors… unless it was always clean. But Pepper is incredible like that. It’s warm and inviting, almost like it’s been waiting for him. 

_‘It hasn’t been waiting for you. Get the thought out of your mind.’_ A bitter voice hisses in his head. 

Pepper walks back out, holding something covered in a white cloth. He holds the door open for her and Morgan, walks out after them. _To the lake_ , Harley thinks. 

The sky peaks between the trees, as the silent procession walks out to the lake, where the canopy is less dense. The sky peaks through, the dull color dotted and hot-glued with wispy white cotton balls, no longer blocked by the shades of green. Pepper removes the cloth from the object. 

Harley understands now. 

He turns. And he walks to the back of the group of people. Alone. 

Harley’s head lifts to face the lake. 

The arc reactor that Harley admired for years… and really, still is in absolute awe of, set out on the lake. Laid upon a craft similar to a wreath, like a boat, because it floats even through the burden of the metal. Wrapped in ornate twines of branches and leaves, small flowers of different but complementary colors weaved with care into the statement. Set and pushed out with utmost gentle care. And the waters take it, the slightly waves washing it back, before pulling it out. Escorted by the reflection of clouds, the green leaves of trees, the needles of pines, and small petals adding a splash of color in the gentle and quiet settling. 

Nature takes what man has made, because this is no man made object. Nature takes this in with the utmost of care, and respect, as the waters pull it towards the middle of the expanse of the vast lake. Particles of pollen and fallen leaves from the trees almost like dust, like magic. Nature handles this with care because this _is no man made object._

This is proof that Tony Stark _has a heart._

The quiet is calm and peaceful. It’s long. Maybe this _is_ a celebration. 

 

The void of silence is slowly filled by the low murmurs of dull, sullen voices. Whispers, or low talking, as people begin to walk about. About as typical and reliable as the hands of a clock - _tick, tick, tick, tick._ It’s reliable. It’s bound to happen with every second, it becomes a part of human nature. Probably because it is human nature. 

Silence is an unavoidable enemy to man.

Harley turns his face skywards. The white imprint of the sun greets him through thick, dark clouds. Even the sun betrays its stay, disappearing behind the wall of ever growing clouds. Tiny water droplets gently prick Harley’s forehead, and he brings his gaze down, away from the sky. The voices are growing louder as people retreat back beneath the trees where it’s dry and safe. Harley walks ahead, stepping towards the cabin. His head turns to look at Pepper after he puts his hand on the door, and she nods. Morgan runs from her, straight to Harley. 

“Hey little miss,” Harley offers a soft chuckle although he himself can tell how forced it is. 

“I wanna show you my toys.” Morgan says, grabbing Harley’s hand and pushing the door open. Hand caught in the iron grip of a five year old, the boy finds himself being dragged up the stairs of the cabin, and to the room on the left.

* * *

“Daddy said he’d sell all my toys if I didn’t sleep one time,” Morgan says, giggling as she lifts a plush white bunny and shoves it in Harley’s face. He couldn’t _not_ smile at this, and even if he didn’t want to, he had to smile for her. “I think he is gonna bring back more toys from his tall toy closet,” she grins happily, pulling the bunny back before placing it gently in his arms. She doesn’t understand... and it’s going to hit her like a rock when she realizes that dead means _forever._

“Sounds about like him huh? Did he tell you one of his famous bedtime stories? He’s really good at those, you know,” Harley chuckles, holding the plush close and giving it a big hug. It earns a squeal of delight from the small girl. She reaches for the plush back and Harley lifts it, placing it on her head. Morgan tries to look up at it and it falls off, landing on the floor soundlessly behind her. 

She scuffles around, grabbing the bunny, before standing up and running over to grab a large plush in the shape of a brown and white paint-type horse with a black mane. “Daddy has boring stories,” she pouts, hugging the horse. It’s about as big as she is, and the hooves drag along the floor as she walks, even though she’s trying to hold it high. She throws it at Harley, who pretends not to catch it and gets hit in the face, falling over. Morgan giggles. “His stories are about a girl going to sleep… he tolds the worstest story ever!” 

Harley swallows, then snorts. Sounds like Tony. He could hear the snarky yet happy tone in his head. His throat constricts. The soft carpet caught his fall but it didn’t comfort his sorrows, so he sits back up, lifting the horse plush up and making it gallop around Morgan. She spins around, throwing her arms out, giggles again, and falls over. Then proceeds to tackle Harley in an immensely over-powered hug. 

“Hey! Hey!” Harley picks her up, laying down on his back and holding her above her by the armpits, lifting his legs up so that she can sit on his stomach and lean back against his upper legs. “Your dad tells great stories! He just likes to leave a little imagination to the touch.” 

“What?” Morgan tilts her head. 

“What do you think that little girl dreamt about, little missy? I think she dreamt about horses, going on an adventure to save the golden goose. What do you think about that?” 

“She has a pink pony! And long purple hair!” Morgan leans forward, and presses her palm against Harley’s head. “She has a fwiend named Harley who has fluffy hair.” 

“Very fluffy hair. She has to save him from the giant who’s holding golden goose! It’s a dangerous journey,” Harley chuckles as Morgan pats his hair, “through the chocolate swamps,” he makes his voice a little bit deeper as he narrates. “Up the fiery volcano… she has to fight a dragon!” He lifts his arms and roars as he sits up and Morgan squeals, hiding her face. He gently takes her wrists and pulls them down. “But they become friends, because the big mean dragon was lonely, and the little Missy has a _big_ heart.” He puts the pads of his fingers between her collarbones and smiles. He gets a smile in return. Her smile looks like Tony’s. 

And her eyes hold the same mechanic’s twinkle. Mischief just behind the iris, gleaming in the bedroom lights and illuminated by the faint rainy day-light through the purple curtains. The rain is gentle against the glass of the window, and if Harley listens closely, he can hear it. Hear each drop as it lands, life short lived as it drips down the glass… 

“Tell me more Harley!” She sits up and pats his shoulder. 

“She and the dragon fly up, up, UP above the clouds, and they see the giant’s castle…” Harley lays back down and Morgan leans forward. “The giant is mean, and BIG, and scary! And he’s got the golden goose and Harley locked in a cage!” 

“Oh no!” Squeals Morgan, messing with the edge of her dress in worry. Her brown eyes grow wide with fear. 

“But it’s okay! Little Missy saves the day... the giant was sleepy, and she’s a total boss at the flute.” Harley snorts, sitting up and ruffling her hair. She whines and smoothes it back down. “And she saves Harley and the golden goose.” 

“Now she have lots of friends!” Morgan cheers. “She saves the day!” Her smile is wide and it reminds him so much of Tony’s when she calms back down. That mischievous smile that was holding back some smart, snarky, fun comment. Harley swallows thickly. But Morgan moves on too fast to notice. 

He’d be lying if part of him didn’t like it that way. 

If most of him didn’t like it that way. 

“Yeah. Yeah she does.” Harley smiles at her - classic crooked grin. He may or may not have picked it up from Tony. “And she definitely has a big party with all her friends, you know that?” 

Morgan nods excitedly with a huge smile. Stories had always been great ways to pass the time. So had been stuffed animals - or in Harley’s case, his different inventions. So the boy and the little girl play, tickling each other, Harley throwing Morgan onto the bed only for her to jump off onto his back. It hurt, but he was too charmed to really even notice. “You know,” Harley says, and Morgan lifts a brow. “Me and your daddy were _connected._ ”  


“Connected?”  


“Connected. He knew when I was cold.”  


“I thinks you were just shibering a lot.”  


“Worth a shot.” 

 

The door creaks open when Morgan is using Harley as a jungle gym. Both heads - dark straight hair, and sandy brown curly hair, look up. Morgan suddenly jumps off of Harley. 

“Peter!” 

_Oh no._

“Hey Miss Morgan!” 

_Please no._

“Come meet my best friend!” 

Harley can feel the mountain of boiling coals being poured into his stomach and the bitter bile of anger eek up his throat and rest just behind his uvula. And when the boy with the mop of wavy brown hair looks his way, Harley can’t break the stare he’s holding. 

The boy moves forward - mostly dragged by Morgan - and extends his hand, a sad but strong smile on his lips.

“Hi. I’m Peter Parker.” 

 

_'I can tell. You know how I can tell? 'Cause we're **connected**!'_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> That's alright.   
> Let it out.   
> Talk to me.


	3. Don't Do Anything Stupid

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Five years feeling every minute of being nothing more than dust does something to you. In and out of words. Seeing death and feeling nothing - like a hibernation where you’re half awake and half dreaming.  
> The child form of his younger self thought he’d see him all the time.  
> The child form of his younger self, just a little older, eventually thought that he’d never see Tony with Peter in the picture.  
> His current self is regretting the lost time that he’ll never get to make up.
> 
> Maybe his bitter view on the boy who replaced him has just been wrong the whole time.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> BIG MASSIVE LOVING THANK YOU to [SexiestSwine (Mitaki1812)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mitaki1812/pseuds/SexiestSwine) for helping me edit this chapter! It'd be trash without their help tbh.  
> okay edit to this note: hell they didn't even edit they basically wrote over half of the chapter and they're amazing and oh my god i  
> yeah!  
> thank you!!! 
> 
> I think it's actually going somewhere now  
> It made me hungry  
> I'm always hungry though 
> 
> also forgot to specify that Peter and Harley are 18-19 in this fiction  
> Because I heard somewhere they were around that age in Infinity War,  
> anyways enjoy
> 
> This chapter is going to be a lot longer, and honestly I'm mad happy with it!

###### Summary:

_Did Mr. Stark find someone else in the five years that he was gone? No. It doesn’t sound right, not in the least because it didn’t look like he’d been doing anything like he used to in the last five years. Shaking his head, Peter pursues further. It’s starting to feel more like a game of cat and mouse than any friendly meeting or conversation. Maybe he just doesn’t want to talk? To be honest that ‘maybe’ could’ve been an ‘absolutely’, no one really wanted to talk. Rhodey never usually missed an opportunity to laugh about Mr. Sta-- Tony! It was a hard habit to break. Peter looks down at his hands, where crescent shaped indentations have turned a maroon-purple color against his lighter tanned skin. He rolls his lower lip between his teeth.  
Cat and mouse it is._

_Anxiety._  
_Tossing, turning in your sleep._  
_Even if you run away,_  
_You still see them in your dreams._

“Hi. I’m Peter Parker.” He thinks the greeting is simple enough, straightforward and to the point, but the boy is staring back at him, and the looks this kid was giving? Well, Peter’d award himself something nice and shiny if he actually managed to figure out what in the hell was going through the other’s mind. Morgan is standing between them, about a foot to the side. Her arms are wrapped tightly around a horse plush as big as she is. Her brown eyes flicker between them and her smile lights up the whole room.

Peter’s throat constricts around a wall of sand that he just can’t swallow, because his tongue is now the biome of the freaking Sahara Desert. Why was this kid here? _Maybe one of Mr. Stark’s interns?_ Peter guesses, his hand slowly beginning to shake. It was like trying to high five someone who didn’t want to high five, except with a hand shake, and Peter just wanted to talk to a heart that’s relating in grief, and-

Suddenly, a hand grabs his own. Long fingers, delicate, but calloused and obviously put to good use. The boy shakes his hand firmly, a smile - which reminded him a lot of Mr. Stark, if Peter is being honest with himself - well, crooked and honestly a half smirk, lighting up his features. He’d recognized the hands of an engineer when he saw them, Mr. Sta-- Tony’s hands were like that all the time. It’s as if the faint grief (and… was that anger?) Peter saw in his eyes never existed. 

“I’m Harley Keener. Nice to meet you, Pete.” 

Morgan is beaming between them. “Friends?” She seems to ask, but it’s like she formed her own answer because she turns to crawl under her bed and stay there. 

“So…” Peter looks away from Morgan and to Harley, who looks back from Morgan to him. “How did you know Mr. Stark?” 

“I-” Before Peter can get an answer out of the...intern(?), a plush white bunny hits him in the face and drops into his hands, leaving him there with a scrunched up and somewhat surprised expression. There’s a tiny giggle from Morgan as she hides behind the bed post. Harley opens his eyes, raising a brow, before ducking down on the other side of the bed. Morgan peeks out from behind the bedpost and can’t see him, but suddenly she squeals and disappears from sight.

Peter jumps over to her, the hair on the back of his neck standing up on edge...but he hears laughter from under the bed. Kneeling down and bending over, Peter peeks his head under the bed. The hair on the back of his neck lays back down as if nothing had happened. 

They’re just having a tickle fight.

No reason to be worried, right? Harley was already in here playing with her before he walked in. 

So why did it feel like he was going to do something? 

Peter pushes the thought aside. 

Again, just an intern, right? More than likely anyway, unless Mr. Sta-- Tony had a kid before Morgan, and given what he knew about Tony before him and Pepper got serious… No he didn’t want to think about that. The face reminds him of someone, but Peter’s never seen him… wouldn’t he have seen him if he _were_ an intern? Maybe he’s thinking too hard about this. Just someone here. Sharing his grief, sharing Ms. Potts’, sharing everyone else’s grief… it is a funeral, after all. 

No, it wasn’t, that’s wrong. 

Ms. Potts called it a celebration. 

Yeah, a celebration. 

Harley crawls out from under the bed, dragging a squealing, laughing Morgan behind him. How he’s able to move like that in the black suit Peter has no idea, because his is stiff and restricting. Even for all his flexibility and limberness ( _is that even a word? C’mon Parker!_ ) it was too much. There wasn’t a single spot on Harley’s, either. He lifts up the girl and sets her on his hip, holding her there after wrapping an arm securely under her. 

“You’re gonna get in trouble if you keep throwing stuff, Princess.” Harley chuckles, shaking his head. Morgan puts her palm on his forehead. 

“I had to make the giant sleepy to rescue Harley!” 

“Yeah, you did! And it works, listen real closely, I bet you can hear his snoring…” 

The two go absolutely silent and Peter would be lying, again, if the whole thing wasn’t endearing at all. Harley’s eyes flash up to Peter. They’re striking, Peter realizes, putting something warm in the pit of his stomach, and a mild foreboding acid in the back of his throat. They reminded him of coffee with a warm tone of caramel toffee and chocolate. Like it was mixed in a mixing bowl, but left with the intricate streaks of chocolate powder. 

Why’s he thinking so hard about this? 

Harley’s staring at him and Peter, after having to mentally turn the light bulb on over his head, opens his mouth, closes his eyes, and lets his head tip back. Boy, he starts snoring to the point it hurts his throat as he starts “sleepwalking” towards them. Morgan giggles, reaching out to bap Peter’s cheek with her hand, and he pretends to wake up. 

“You hungry?” He asks, more to Harley than to Morgan. But then again it feels like he’s asking both.  
“I want cheeseburgers,” Morgan says, her hands messing with Harley’s black tie.  
Harley pauses, looking down at her for a moment. He looks shocked, and Peter can feel his chest clench, too.  
“Yeah, we’ll get you some cheeseburgers,” he says. He looks up to Peter, and that hint of something in his eyes glints. There’s not time to see what it is, because Harley’s already turned around, walking out the door to the room.  
Peter’s left standing there for just a moment, before his feet start working for him, walking out past the door, and shutting it gently behind him.

* * *

Peter doesn’t know what to think. He barely knew anything about Harley Keener, but for some reason Pepper, Morgan, Rhodey… well, really, most of the people Peter saw often knew him. Who was he, really? Biting his lip, Peter is beginning to think that maybe he isn’t just an intern. Then again that thought was never confirmed in the first place, and the other he had was one he didn’t want to believe, and he feels like he started playing with Morgan to avoid the question. 

If Peter didn’t want to talk about something, he’d try to find a diversion, too. So he decides not to pressure it. Figures that it’d be best for now anyway, it’s a celebration of life, or at least it was supposed to be. Everyone in this house right now had things they didn’t want to talk about.

Walking through the kitchen, while everyone is outside - the rain has stopped - Peter notices that Harley seems to take extra care not to look at any of the pictures. He sets Morgan down and she runs into the kitchen, disappearing behind the tall cabinets. Peter notices the glint of glass, and his curiosity had caught him by the lapels of his suit, but how could he not be curious even slightly? His head turns to face the frame and he sees a boy holding a science fair prize in one hand, some sort of gun in the other. There’s a big smile on his face, and his caramel brown curls fall wildly…

Peter raises a brow, discreetly eying the boy in the kitchen. His eyes flicker back and forth between Harley and the picture. Swallowing his fears, he steps forwards, holding the frame. 

“Is this you?” He asks gently. 

Harley doesn’t respond for a moment, until his eyes slowly trace the counters to the object in Peter’s hands. Harley’s lips twitch. “Yeah.” He responds flatly, before looking away, bending down to pick up Morgan when she asks to be held again. He picks her up happily, it seems, before turning and walking out of the kitchen. Peter knits his eyebrows together, setting the frame back down where he found it. 

Did Mr. Stark find someone else in the five years that he was gone? No. It doesn’t sound right, not in the least because it didn’t look like he’d been doing anything like he used to in the last five years. Shaking his head, Peter pursues further. It’s starting to feel more like a game of cat and mouse than any friendly meeting or conversation. Maybe he just doesn’t want to talk? To be honest that ‘maybe’ could’ve been an ‘absolutely’, no one really wanted to talk. Rhodey never usually missed an opportunity to laugh about Mr. Sta-- Tony! It was a hard habit to break. Peter looks down at his hands, where crescent shaped indentations have turned a maroon-purple color against his lighter tanned skin. He rolls his lower lip between his teeth.  
Cat and mouse it is.

* * *

So, maybe this isn’t going to be as hard as Peter originally thought. Harley seems apprehensive and skeptical for the most part, but only before they walk up to a silver sports car. Peter could’ve guessed, but he didn’t know why he didn’t think Harley would drive anything like this. Certainly no one else here would, did Carol even have a car? Would she even need a car? Cap definitely wouldn’t have, where was he anyway? Now that he was thinking about it, it made more sense. 

Then again he barely knew him and was struggling to get to. In large part due to Harley himself, but a small part of him didn’t even want to know.

Harley opens the back seat door and sets Morgan inside, buckling her safely in the middle seat, earning a tap on the cheek in return. He kisses her hand and gets a series of giggles in return just before he shuts the door. Walking up to the driver’s side, and opening the door, Harley looks over the car to Peter. 

“Are you coming, or am I going to struggle not to run over you when I pull out?” He puts a pair of shades - shades that look very, very familiar - on his face, waiting with his arms crossed. 

“I’m coming, I’m coming,” Peter puts his hands up in false surrender, then pulls open the passenger door, hopping inside. 

Harley is soon to follow, turning the car on and eventually carefully backing out. By what Peter could take in, he was probably used to driving a lot faster than what the current terrain allows, but then again there was a kid in the backseat, without a booster, so he was probably just being careful. Did Happy know they were gone? He figures it’s okay to send a quick text just to let him and Ms. Potts know. He drives smoothly, and Peter listens to the hum of the engine, turning his head to the right to watch the passing trees. His hands are on his knees as he sits there, legs apart, trying to busy himself by looking around the car, but it’s definitely awkward and the silence is stifling. It’s almost as bad as when he was crushed under the parking garage by The Vulture. 

He swallows thickly. 

They’re saved when Harley turns on music, keeping it at a low volume as he drives. Arctic Monkeys, so good taste in music. Peter’s eyes flash up to the mirror in the backseat. Morgan grins up at him with a big smile on her face. 

She’s holding the white bunny again. 

They eventually pull into a Burger King, Harley backing in one go into a small parking space. Whether it was to impress or it was just because he normally did that, Peter _really_ couldn’t tell. Every action of his felt like a microcosm of Tony, the shades, the vaguely joking threats, the music, the driving even. Especially the way he handled Morgan, how comfortable he seemed to be around her. Peter’s heart could hardly handle it, and though he didn’t quite know why, it stung behind his eyes anyway. He purses his lips and looks out the window again. Harley turns off the car, unlocking it. Peter doesn’t move. 

Harley looks over to him, taking the sunglasses off. “Earth to Rock.”

“What?” Peter turns his head, arching a brow.  
“Peter is Hebrew for rock,” Harley says, frowning. “Name suits you.” He gets out of the car, opening the backdoor and unbuckling Morgan. She hops out, and they walk in front of the car, waiting for Peter. 

Rock? 

Peter hops out of the car and the three of them walk into the Burger King. The air is more fresh here than it is in the heart of New York City, or Queens, and Peter makes sure to take in a good lung fill for it. If inside was going to be anything like that car ride, he isn’t sure if he can handle it. 

Harley walks up and orders. 

“One cheeseburger kids meal, two Whopper meals.”

The cashier puts it into the cash register, then looks up. “Is that all, Sir?” 

“Yeah, that’ll be i-”

“Can you add two whoppers to the side of that? Please?” Peter quickly interjects, pulling out his wallet. Harley bats his hand a few times, shaking his head. 

“I got it. Yeah, add those.”

The cashier nods, and Harley walks back to take a seat after paying. 

So Peter decides he’ll fill the drinks, walking over to Harley and Morgan to ask what they want. 

“Sprite!” Morgan cheers. 

“Dr. Pepper.” Harley sits down next to Morgan in the seat. He snorts after she refuses his offer for a booster, instead opting to kneel and sit on her feet, hands on the table. 

So, maybe this won’t be so bad. He watches Harley and Morgan interact from over at the soda fountain, filling the drinks and maybe purposefully taking a bit longer than he’s really meant to. Harley has no problem making her laugh. Morgan has no problem making him smile a little. Some little part of Peter, a part he’s hardly aware of, wants to be able to make him smile too. 

The thought comes out of nowhere and catches him off guard - he jumps after realizing his Coke overflowed and is pouring out onto his hand, luckily missing the white sleeve under the black jacket sleeve by only a few millimeters. He’s quick in drying off the sugary bubbles, and carries all three drinks back to the table, sitting opposite of the two. Harley doesn’t seem to notice him quite yet. 

“Thank you Peter!” Morgan shouts, grabbing her Sprite from his hands and taking a long drink of it. 

Harley looks up, and the smile that was on his face vanishes. “Thanks,” he says after taking the drink. 

Peter can only offer a smile, though it feels weak. 

“My Aunt’s gonna kill me if she finds out I didn’t help pay,” Peter tries for conversation and really it’s the first thing that comes to mind and he says it without really thinking about it. 

“Yeah, well, I’d be worse than dead if I didn’t learn anything from my mom.” Harley says offhandedly. But he stands to go grab the burgers when the number is called. 

“You boths are odd.” Morgan comments. “Do you hate him?” She tilts her head.

“I don’t-! I don’t know what’s wrong, really,” Peter whispers back. In the back of his head though he can’t help but feel like it was the other way around. It wasn’t that he hated Harley, but it sure felt like the script was flipped on him.

“He’s funny. I like him. You should like him too.” The girl shrugs and smiles. It’s innocent but Peter can feel it deep in his chest that he’s doing something wrong. Maybe he said something. 

When Harley comes back, he’s smiling, though it seems this time just a little forced. It strikes Peter. Grief does weird things to people right? Maybe he’s overthinking it. Maybe he’s weird because of it. Maybe Harley’s weird because of it. Not that he’s weird but then again, Peter has no idea what his normal is… Okay if he wasn’t overthinking it before he was _definitely_ overthinking it now. 

He tries to shake the thought off but the pressure in his chest starts building up and the Sahara Desert attacks his mouth again when he starts thinking about it. Harley looks up at him. 

“I like cheeseburgers.” Morgan smiles, biting into her burger. 

And this time, when Peter makes eye contact with Harley, there’s a little of the same pain from the three words that Morgan said. 

Harley is the first to break the eye contact, looking down to his burger and unwrapping it. Peter takes a large gulp of Coca-Cola to wash down the hot, tingling feeling in his throat. It makes it better for a few seconds, at least until he tears open one of his three cheeseburgers and takes a massive bite out of it. It’s good, real good. Cheeseburgers are always good, and the moment he stuffs his mouth with a few french fries, his tongue is singing the ‘Hallelujah’ chorus. He’s got two down by the time Morgan’s finished, and Harley’s only halfway through. 

“Guess you were hungry?” Harley half comments half asks, looking up from his slightly hunched position. 

“Uh-” Peter swallows a mouthful of burger and french fry. “I have a high metabolism. Can’t ever get enough,” he grins, before going right back to chewing. Not to mention that he hadn’t eaten in five years, not that he would’ve known, but the fact that he did know made him hungry.

It brings a snort from Harley, and giggles from Morgan, who continues eating at her french fries. She dips them very thoroughly in the ketchup before bringing them to her mouth with a big smile. Harley is looking down at his burger like he’s about to be sick - the pain is in his eyes, it’s like he wants it but is forcing himself not to eat it. It’s like watching the devil and angel on the shoulder arguing back and forth. Then he notices and decides to take a bite and a very long sip of Dr. Pepper. Like he’s nursing the thing, sometimes looking over to Morgan. One time dipping his finger in her ketchup filled paper souffle cup, then tapping her forehead. 

“Harley!” She squeals, crossing her eyes to look at the dot on her forehead when Harley pops his finger in his mouth and pulls it out, no ketchup remnants to be found. Morgan bats her hands at his shoulders and he laughs a little, tucking his shoulder in but facing his punishment well.  
Then he brings a napkin up and wipes it off. Morgan sticks her tongue out at him, then apologizes for it. 

“Sorry Harley.” 

“S’okay, Little Missy.” 

Peter could feel that acid back in his throat and that uncomfortable heat in his stomach that feels like it’s rising to his cheeks. _Cool it, Pete!_ He looks back down to his half finished third burger and it feels like his starvation is finally being cured. Food’s good, always helps. Most of the time it does anyway, sometimes it causes indigestion and worry, that maybe whoever was treating you to burgers and fries was doing it out of obligation, simply because you were there. That there was a barely held back, thinly veiled negativity, hidden behind a pair of distinctly stylish red shades that only few could pull off. 

Finally he finishes the third burger. Harley and Morgan are watching him - not saying anything, but definitely watching. “Need dessert, too? There’s this massive dessert bar where they _might_ have enough for your appetite.” Morgan claps her hand over her mouth, tilting her head back and forth between them. A smirk tugs at Harley’s lips, and he raises his eyebrows, lifting his chin up.

Peter doesn’t quite know what to make of that, the comment sounds funny and he was sure it was meant to be so, but there seemed to be a definite animosity that he didn’t quite know what to do with. But it leaving it wasn’t quite right to just leave it there, hanging in the air, and take the diss without dishing one back. Unfortunately for him though it felt like he didn’t know enough about Harley to make an adequate comeback.  
“What you offering? Don’t get me wrong Har, but it sounds like you’re starting to like my company. What do you think Morgan? Ice cream?”

Morgan nodded her head happily, finishing off the rest of her fries and downing her Sprite, as if to demonstrate she was more than ready for ice cream.

Harley’s eye twitches just slightly as the nickname is said. Both eyes narrow but only for a brief moment. “Offering? You just ate three cheeseburgers. In today’s culture, that’s three whole cows. You gonna eat the whole self serve machine?” He fiddles with an empty, used paper souffle cup, tearing it a little. Before flicking it Peter’s direction almost as though he's bored. “Bold thing to say, coming from the guy who’s cheeks were redder than Spider-Man’s suit a few minutes ago.” 

“Redder than Spidey's suit? That's an awful lot of red, to be honest I don't think the human body has that much red,” he tries to laugh it off, think about anything else other than the new heat rising to his cheeks all over again. He stands up quickly, picking up his Coke and chugging the rest of it down, wiping away any excess fluid on his mouth with the back of his hand, looking toward the door. 

“Besides,” he says, not really looking at the door but rather far past it, focusing on something he can't see, “Morgan wants ice cream now right?” Peter could see her nod out of his peripheral vision, and that was good enough for him. “You wouldn't wanna deny her now would you?” It was certainly a dirty tactic for a call to appeal, using Morgan like that, especially for something as trivial as ice cream. Not in the least because Peter wasn't actually sure he wanted any ice cream.

Harley blinks slowly. He sits there in the booth with elbows on the table, one hand fisted and the other hand comfortably wrapped around the first. But he stands up, taking Morgan’s hand and leading her out of the booth. “Don’t think you would either, but here you are denying her of such flavorful dessert by talking so much.” The brunette clicks his tongue and shakes his head, crossing his arms. Morgan attempts to mimic him, but doesn’t quite succeed in crossing her arms right away. “Keep up the talk, I guess we’ll see you there tomorrow, huh?” Harley chuckles, reaching down to take Morgan’s hand after putting his shades on, and walking right out of the Burger King. As they walk out, Morgan turns her head to look back at Peter with wide, worried eyes, before looking forward. 

 

He stands there dumbfounded for a moment before hastening to join them, pushing past the door and toward Harley, coming up just next to him. How did he turn it so thoroughly around on him like that? It reminded him a lot of To-- no. No he couldn't do that to himself right now, Peter knew he was probably just looking for him, trying to find him in places he wasn't. He walked past Harley, putting the thoughts aside entirely as he came around the passenger side of the car, stopping just before the door to wait for Harley and Morgan. Watching him carry her effortlessly put a pang in his solar plexus, and a twitch in his hand resting on the cold handle of the door.  
Everything felt colder, just a little more hostile. Who was he? Who was he exactly? Why was he at a celebration of life for Tony Stark? Most important of all why were there pictures of him as a kid, winning science fairs with high tech looking gadgets, in Tony's home? That's one question Peter thinks he wants answered most, why are there pictures of him as a kid probably strewn about Tony's place, surely he doesn't have baby pictures of every intern Stark Industries has ever had. Besides if he did anyway…  
Why had he never asked Peter for any?

Harley unlocks the car, buckling Morgan safely up in the backseat one more time. He puts her stuffed animal in her arms and makes a funny face at her, which she replies to by hooking her index fingers around the edges of her mouth and pulling tight, then sticking her tongue out at him. She giggles, he snorts, just before he closes the door and hops into the driver’s seat but a moment later. He starts the car and lounges in the seat, rolling down the window of the drivers side, letting his legs go loose. He rests his elbow on the side of the door, resting his chin on his knuckles. He’s looking out over the parking lot, expression gone unseen in the side mirror because the sunglasses block his eyes. His lips aren’t pulled in any direction, instead vouching to sit neutral. After a moment, he rolls down the passenger window, turning his head. “Car’s unlocked, you know, unless you’d like to hang onto the side while I drive.” 

During the whole process, maybe somewhere in the middle, Peter’s mind had started to wander, looking around, at anywhere but Harley and Morgan, trying to distance himself. It wasn’t often that he wasn’t honest about his feelings to whomever he was talking to, and it was pretty obvious he was an open book, wearing his emotions on his sleeve was something Peter did very well. 

Though he was starting to learn to cover it up, it was already getting annoying already to tell people he was fine over and over again, despite absolutely not being fine. No one around him except maybe Happy and Pepper knew that he was an emotional wreck, maybe May, but if she did she didn’t say anything. Harley calls out to him, snapping him out of his reverie immediately. He didn’t know why he felt insulted by the snide remark, and at the same time he didn’t know why he found it endearing.

“Right, well I think I could do that a lot better than you’d think I could.” Peter laughed softly at his own little joke, at his own expense, while he entered the car, slamming the door shut behind him. “How does a kid like you get a sports car anyway? I don’t even know how to drive yet.” It was a valid question, one he dreaded the answer to.

“Bet you could do it. Might give you wind burn, though.” He doesn’t flinch when the door is slammed, although the corner of his mouth twitches ever so slightly. Head had turned forward for a moment, almost like a quick, tranquil pondering. For a moment he looks at peace, but contradicting that, a mind at war. His hand rests on the top of the steering wheel, knuckles turning white because his fingers are just clenched so tightly. The moment he realizes he’s doing that, his fingers relax and he lets his posture become less tense. 

Harley turns his head to face Peter. “The Mechanic once told me time is worth more than all the money in the world. Money can buy a lot of things, but the work put towards it makes it priceless.” He starts the car, and the engine revs to life. This time, the corner of his lip twitches upward. “I wanted to drive, so I learned.” There’s a simple shrug before he turns around, stretching over his seat. “You okay, Princess?” he asks. “Ready for ice cream?” 

“Ice cream!” Morgan cheers with a smile, practically bouncing in her seat. She drops the bunny but Harley picks it up for her. 

“Ice cream, here we come, then.” He pulls out of the parking space. “My turn for question,” Harley suddenly says. “A kid like me can do a lot of things. Need to specify what you meant?” 

The whir of the window running down, so as to give Peter more air, cut through Harley’s words, allowing him enough time to really think about his answer. Peter had a sinking feeling in his gut that he knew who ‘The Mechanic’ was, but he didn’t let on that he did. Harley wasn’t using his name for a reason, and it made Peter ever so slightly jealous that he didn’t have a nickname like that for Tony. Just _‘Mr. Stark’_ and he was trying to break himself out of saying it, it stung way too much, felt way too formal for what Peter felt like he really was. There was a part of him that used to feel bad, thinking that way about Tony, so soon after Ben too. God Peter really did have horrendous luck with father figures.

“My uncle used to tell me with great power, comes great responsibility. As long as we’re passing tidbits of wisdom around. I never really got what he meant until after--” He stopped himself short, Peter didn’t really want to finish that sentence, not today at least. Not given the shaky footing he was on with Harley as it was. He thought about Ben enough, he didn’t need to think about him today too. “I live in Queens, I don’t need to drive. Got other ways to get around.” Subway used to do him just fine, not anymore though, he smiled softly thinking about it, but didn’t specify beyond that.

As they drove down the empty road, way further upstate than he’d ever been, even out beyond the old Avengers compound, the wind whipping through Peter’s hair he couldn’t help but feel like the world stopped. Sleepy neighborhood sure, but the empty streets were more than a little disconcerting for his taste. Air tasted more still and crisp, the leaves stuck to trees as they flew in the breeze, as if they wouldn’t dare fall today. “Dunno, sorta just, a hypothesis I guess. You’re at Mr. Stark’s celebration, about my age. Just sorta… wondering I guess. How you knew him.”

Harley shrugs. “Think I get what you mean. Power’s all different forms. My mom worked a lot, so most of our passing were tidbits like those. Think my…” he pauses, seeming to ponder it a little bit. Looking ahead of him and going silent. “Yeah, think my dad went out to go buy some scratchers at 7-Eleven.” He snorts. “Vermont, though. Kinda on the border of New York. Sorta need to drive, unless you wanna walk or something.” He’s eyes stay on the road behind the sunglasses.

The wind pulls at the curly hair on Harley’s head but doesn’t make it any more wild than it already was. He doesn’t fight it, and it’s easy to think he’s used to it. “Hypothesis. Yeah. You call him Mr. Stark?” Harley knits his eyebrows together as he turns his head for a brief moment to look at Peter. “Huh.” He seems like he wants to comment further on it, but decides not to, turning his head back to the road. “Might as well have been my dad, since we were so close.” The shoulders of the boy offer a mere shrug, once again. “Not everyday that you go out to your shitty garage to see some man sitting at your desk with a pile of metal sitting on your sofa behind him.” 

Not everyday indeed. Tony’d never told him about that, but then again now that he was thinking about it Peter didn’t know why he’d expected Tony to tell him. “I only called him that because,” he checked in the backseat quickly, happy to find Morgan nodding off ever so slightly, “I always got too nervous to call him anything else. Now that I’m lookin’ back though…” _I regret missing the opportunity._ “I get you though, guy shows up in my room one night, talking to me about… a mentoring opportunity. Recognized my talents, changed my life. Might as well have been a second dad after that too…”

Was that jealousy? Crawling up his throat and into his expression? He turned away from Harley quickly, eyes wide, staring straight ahead at the road.

“I only ever called him Tony once,” he says plainly, matter-of-fact and cold. It was right as he died, when Rhodey pulled him back and Pepper went in. His heart beat rapidly, thumping against his ribcage like the force itself would break bone, good opportunity to find out if he had a healing factor.  
_Mr. Stark... we won! We won, Mr. Stark, we wo-won. Mr. Stark… Tony..._

It was so quiet, barely there even, caught in his throat like he wasn’t worthy of saying it then, even though he’d always wanted to. He still felt like he wasn’t worthy of saying it now, even though he’s trying really hard to say it now.

“He told me not to call him Tony or Mr. Stark,” Harley says, keeping his eyes dead ahead on the road. “Might’ve been just because of the time. Mark 42 and all.” He doesn’t talk to quickly but he doesn’t let the words come out so slowly that it’s painful. It’s easy to talk but he’s still holding something back - who wouldn’t be? In all the events of today it’s just easy to expect. “So I just didn’t call him either.” Harley is relaxed as he’s driving, somewhat, at least. Left arm extended out loosely so his hand can grasp at the top of the wheel, holding it steady. Right arm on the armrest of the chair. Every so often he’d glance in the mirror to look back at Morgan. She’s asleep, leaning against the back of the chair, head resting at an awkward angle against her shoulder. There’s the chime of a phone, some bamboo-like chime. Harley fishes his phone out of his pocket, quickly reads the name. He taps the green accept button and lifts the phone to his ear. 

“Hello?” Harley’s eyebrows knit together, then he laughs softly. “No, Happy. _I_ might’ve been gone but I sure as hell am not gonna let her out of my sight. She’s asleep. Yes. No, we’re going for some ice cream.” There’s the chattering of another voice on the other end of the line. Then there’s silence between them both. “No need to thank me, thank King Tang of Shang. Without him, there’d be no ice cream to go get.” Another long pause as Harley listens. “Bye, Happy. We’ll be back soon.” Harley hangs up the phone. “He changed a lot of lives. I think it’s this uh, talent, he has. Maybe his real superpower. Making legacies.” He offers a simple shrug, as they pull into the parking lot of an ice cream shop. 

The door opens easily with a snap, but Peter doesn’t get out just yet. Tony never let Harley call him Mr. Stark? He was fine with a personal nickname from this kid, but he never once corrected Peter, or told him he didn’t like it. Everything about Harley was starting to throw him for a loop and he didn’t understand, it was like Tony treated them both so different. That’s not to say he didn’t like it, he loved the way Tony treated him, the suits, and the trust and the training. Even offering him a spot on The Avengers team. _The Avengers! _Come on, that had to have been every fifteen year old kids _dream_ , and Peter lived it!__

__Yet he still sat in a car, the sounds of Morgan breathing in her sleep in the background cutting through a silence, wondering what he’d done wrong. Why Tony had never told him otherwise about his name, why he’d never mentioned Harley in all that time. He fished his phone out of his pocket at the sound of a chime, one stolen from _The Legend of Zelda_ , surprised and not surprised to see a text from Pepper. Happy called Harley, Pepper messaged him, and somehow Peter had felt like that might have been premeditated._ _

__**Ms. Pepper:** __

_____Noticed you and Harley went out. I trust you to take care of my kid ;)_  
___ _

____**Ms. Pepper:** ___ _

______Otherwise I’ll put on the armor and not even your suit’ll save you, Peter._ ___ _ _

__

__

__Peter couldn’t help but laugh at the message, typing one out in response quickly;_ _

__

__

__**Peter:**  
_ _

___Don’t worry, I wouldn’t even put it on. I’ll accept my death like a real man._ _  
_

__**Peter:**  
_ _

___A **Spider**-Man! Huh!? I’m hilarious.__  
_

__  
_Proud with his response, but he still hadn’t gotten out of the car, and if he was perfectly honest he was surprised Harley hadn’t made fun of him for it yet. He chances a look outside, getting out slowly, shutting the door behind him._  


__“Someone’s gotta stay here with Morgan. Unless you wanna wake her up for ice cream. I don’t think she’d mind, but y’know. Long day.” He leaves the decision up to Harley, he didn’t want to assume. Shellshocked as he is he doesn’t know what he is okay to do and what he isn’t anymore. “Also, King Tang of Shang? Amazing, didn’t think anyone else stayed up learning weird facts on Wikipedia.” The air feels too cold now, cleaner sure, though he certainly doesn’t know what Queens smells like now after five years of half the population poofing into nothing, but he’s sure he missed the familiarity anyway. Sun is reaching golden hour, playing off the catchlights in Harley’s hair, it looks like a crown, and Peter is stunned._ _

__“Don’t slam the door when you get back, Rock, you might wake her up.” Harley says flatly, turning his head to look at Peter over his sunglasses. “I mean, I personally wouldn’t want to interrupt a great dream about ponies, dragons, giants, and golden geese.” The boy is watching Peter closely it seems, from behind the dark tinted glasses. Tracking his eyes, at least until he tilts his chin up and the glasses obscure his eyes._ _

__“King Tang of Shang, of course. The trick to looking and being smart is learning random facts. You’re in decathlon, right? You should know that better than most people.” Harley offers a shrug. “Reading the wiki articles late at night is my speciality. Helps keep the mind from focusing on other things.” He leaves it there, looking back forwards for a few minutes, staring at the ice cream shop._ _

__“She likes vanilla, dipped in the chocolate shell, with sprinkles on top.” Again, he turns his head to face Peter. “Shouldn’t be that hard to order ice cream, yeah? Think again. You’re ordering ice cream for a princess here. It’s gotta be perfect. The pressure is on.” The corner of his lip twitches upwards just slightly. “Go, or I’ll run you over.” The way he says it, it sounds like he’s joking, but at the same time dead serious._ _

__Decathlon? How did Harley know that?? Unless Tony told him? Why would Tony tell him something like that? He chuckled softly in response to Harley’s non-joke joke, shooting an uncomfortable and uncertain smile his way as the hard sole and heels of his dress shoes clicked along the asphalt parking lot, then the cement sidewalk before stepping onto hard tile. The parlour was cold and fresh, smelling of ice and coffee, and he’d just realized Harley hadn’t told him what he wanted. He was starting to think Harley wouldn’t tell him anyway even if he asked, but he knew Morgan’s favourite off the top of his head._ _

__None of this made sense anymore, he said Tony wasn’t his dad but what if he was? How long had he known Tony anyway? Everything he’d wanted to ask, everything causing a weirdly intense amount of anxiety, but the more time he spent with Harley the less and less he thought that he’d actually answer any of those questions. Nothing for it now, ice cream was his main mission, he’d just have to guess what Harley would’ve wanted and hope he was right. The parlour was empty, just one lonely looking twenty-something sitting behind the counter, who seemed very put-off by Peter having just ruined their lazy streak._ _

__“Hey,” he says, coming up to the counter with a small wave and a sheepish smile._ _

__“Hello, welcome to Gianni’s Gelato’s what can I get you?” The response sounded tired and bored, much like the look on the twenty-something’s face._ _

__Peter laughed gently as he looked over the ice creams, humming a tuneless song before ordering. “Gonna need one kids waffle-cone, vanilla, dipped in chocolate, sprinkles on top--”_ _

__“Rainbow or chocolate?” Wow this girl _really_ didn’t want to be here._ _

__“R-rainbow? Yeah, rainbow. Okay uh, one Nutella cone for me - sugar cone, not waffle… And…” Peter trails off, rubbing the bottom of his chin, deep in thought. What would someone like Harley even want?_ _

__“And…??” She asks impatiently, waving the scoop around dramatically._ _

__“Uhh… Do you guys do milkshakes?”_ _

__She rolls her eyes as if Peter had just asked a dumb question. “It’s an ice cream place. Duh.”_ _

__“Cool… Oreo milkshake then, whip cream on top.” Peter sighs softly as she starts working on his order, walking to a side wall to stand and wait, before deciding it was probably a good idea to check his wallet. It’d been five years since he’d opened it, it was in a superposition of having money and also not having money._ _

__

__Schrodinger's Wallet. _That’s hilarious, I’m hilarious.__ _

__Well he had to check eventually, the superposition had to fall and unfortunately for him, this was the universe where he was still broke as a joke.  
“G-gimme a sec! Gotta grab somethin’ from the car, be right back.” The girl behind the counter just hummed in disinterest as Peter ran back outside to Harley, leaning cooly against his car._ _

__Harley’s head doesn’t move from where it is - like he’s staring at his hands. His fingers are curled around the 6 o’clock area on the steering wheel, hands and arms limp. It looks like he’s asleep. Until a hand reaches to the left, to hold down on a button to roll the window down. Arm lifting up to rest on the door, where the window rolls down into, Harley tilts his head up. “No ice cream?” He raises a brow. “Yikes. Or was the server an asshole? This place is great but there’s two employees who can take the _fun and sweet out of ice cream._ ” Harley’s lips pull into somewhat of a half-hearted frown, his other hand lifting up from the wheel to remove his sunglasses. He tucks them into his suit pocket, where they stick out ever so slightly. “What really happened.” It’s definitely more of a statement than a question. _ _

__Peter smiles sheepishly. “I thought maybe I’d woken up in a universe where I had a fat wallet. Not so this time, maybe next time. Help me out? I promise I’ll get you back.”_ _

__Harley opens his mouth only to smack his lips once, tongue making a clicking sound after popping off the roof of his mouth as he looks back to the ice cream shop. He drops his head, looking down, before unbuckling his seat belt. “Don’t make promises you can’t keep,” he says, seemingly half joking half not. Opening the car door, Harley stands, to open the back door. “Hey, Little Missy,” he says gently, unbuckling Morgan’s seatbelt and gently waking her up. “Ready for ice cream?”_ _

__Morgan yawns, but her eyes suddenly pop open after a small groan of I-was-just-asleep-and-now-I’m-not. “Ice cream?” She asks, looking up at Harley._ _

__“Ding ding ding,” Harley chimes. “10 points to the little lady. You’re gosh darn right, let’s go get some.”_ _

__Morgan is out of the car in a blink of an eye, grabbing one of Harley’s hands with both of her own much smaller ones, and dragging him along into the ice cream shop. Harley turns his head around, looking back at Peter. “You’ll need to feed the moths in your wallet sometime soon, Pete.”_ _

__“I think they’ll get enough of a meal back at home, to be honest with you. That’s five years of old laundry smell, they couldn’t get enough,” he laughs softly, shutting the door behind Morgan._ _

__Morgan giggles, running up to the counter with the ice cream. She knows better to put her hands on the glass, more than likely because of Pepper, and puts her hands just under the glass, standing on her tiptoes to look in. “Vanilla! Chocolate on top! Sprinkles!” She cheers happily._ _

__Harley looks up to the girl at the register, who definitely still doesn’t want to be there. The boy looks like he knows that expression well, because he snorts softly, walking forwards and pulling out his wallet. Lifting his chin and casting somewhat of a big smile, he pulls Peter forward with him. “Whatever the big man over here ordered and didn’t realize his eyes were bigger than his stomach for,” he says, lifting a hand to wrap around Peter’s shoulders, pat and shake him just slightly, then letting him go as quick as he grabbed on._ _

__“Yeah. Whatever.” The girl throws somewhat of an annoyed look down at Morgan, and Harley’s lips pull into a tight frown as his eyes narrow. When she looks back up, he’s suddenly wearing the smile he’d worn when he’d spoken to her prior to now. She tells him the price and he pulls out the appropriate bill. Maybe a few dollars over. Immediately he snaps his wallet shut, though. “Keep the change.”_ _

__The whole exchange ended as quick as it started, and Peter would be lying if he said that shoulder grab didn’t just throw him entirely. The girl behind the counter handing Harley a cone, which he gave to Morgan, another cone and a milkshake, though Harley didn’t hand him his so he took it from his hand gently. “Thanks again, I really do promise I’ll get you back,” Peter says, giving his ice cream a cursory lick. He walked past Harley, pushing the door open with his back, choosing to stand there with the door open, rather than get back to the car though. Deciding instead to wait for Harley and Morgan._ _

__Harley takes Morgan’s hand, and together they walk to the door after Harley grabs several napkins before they walk out the door together, Harley watching her. “Don’t spill it, Little Missy. I’m trusting you here.”_ _

__Morgan nods, taking a solid bite out of her ice cream without flinching (although Harley does wince very quietly). “I know.” She replies with a big smile, chocolate on her lips.  
They walk to the car and instead of getting in the driver’s seat, Harley gets in the back with Morgan, helping her scoot into the middle seat while he sits on her left. Peter walks back to the car after them, slowly, taking decisive licks of his ice cream, and munching on the cone as it starts to get lower and lower. Without even really thinking about it he gets into the backseat with both Morgan and Harley, smiling happily at her when she giggles excitedly at him sitting down next to her._ _

__“Petey! Petey joined us!” She exclaims, while keeping a firm grip on her ice cream._ _

__“Absolutely did! Didn’t wanna miss my chance to hang out with Royalty! And Harley.” Peter laughs gently, booping Morgan’s nose, shooting a look over Harley’s way. Try as he might, he couldn’t decipher the look on his face. The only thing that really came across in spades is grief, and that was something Peter definitely understood. Grief, and something else that just couldn’t be described either. He stares at the back of the driver seat headrest, eyes intense and calculating. However, there’s a thin layer of fog over them, like he’s dazing out._ _

__When Morgan pulls on his sleeve, Harley snaps out of it, lifting up a napkin in one hand to wipe her chocolate covered nose off, and lifting his oreo shake to his mouth and taking a long drink from it with the other. “You sayin’ I’m not royalty, Parker? Ouch.” He looks up at Peter, head still pointing down to Morgan, and scoffs just slightly. “You should see me in a crown.” A little comment to which Morgan giggles quite a bit._ _

__“You? In a crown, Harlz?” She asks with wide eyes as she bites down on another mouthful of ice cream._ _

__“‘Course. And you in a tiara.”_ _

__“I have one of those!” She smiles, and Harley wipes her cheek again._ _

__Peter laughs heartily from the diaphragm, not holding himself back for once, for a little bit. “Y’know what Har, I think I have seen you in a crown, and yeah I’ll give it to you, heck of an oversight on my part. You might as well be Royalty.”_ _

__“Hope it wouldn’t be anything else,” Harley says in some British-like accent. Morgan giggles and she shoves the rest of her cone in her mouth. “You’re getting messy on purpose, aren’t you, Little Miss?” Harley takes another napkin and licks it a few times, trying to wipe off the chocolate and rainbow colors from the sprinkles. Morgan practically shrieks after she sees him lick the napkin._ _

__“No Harls!” She cries, but is rendered helpless. “I don’t want the spit on my face!”_ _

__Peter’s laughter died down for a moment, just as he watched Harley fuss with Morgan, wiping off remnants of ice cream and he could feel it, a familiar warmth in his chest radiating outwards. At the beginning of their outing, just after the funeral when he’d met Harley, he wondered why his senses went off when Harley was play fighting with Morgan. He wondered why he felt so intensely weird around him all day. Why he found he couldn’t get quite a good enough read on him, he was distracted. Peter Parker found himself distracted by Harley Keener, with anything and everything he did._ _

__He’d met this boy not even a full hour ago, probably not even a year apart from him give or take, he hadn’t asked yet. Given that Peter would be celebrating eighteen soon, he could make an educated guess, but either way he was crushing. Hard. On a guy he met at Tony’s funeral no less. He didn’t know why, but he figured Tony would’ve laughed at that. A cough splutters from his throat as he steps out of the car, trying to hide the blush on his face, finishing off his cone quickly. “W-we should head back, yeah?” He gave no reason for why he wanted to go, other than, “Been out for a while.”_ _

__Harley looks up to the radio, checking the time and pursing his lips. “I guess it has,” he comments, finishing wiping up Morgans face and then wiping her hands. He finishes off his milkshake, then helps Morgan buckle up, before closing the back door and walking to the trashcan to dispose of the messy napkins and empty milkshake cup. He walks back to the car, opening the door and sitting down in the driver’s seat again. His head falls back against the headrest and he closes his eyes for just a moment._ _

__Peter crumpled up and tossed his napkin at the trashcan by the door of the shop, landing it in without much surprise, while his head was fogged all the way through. He had a crush, and it seemed like Harley couldn’t stand to be around him. “Don’t do anything stupid…” Peter whispers softly entirely to himself, getting into the front seat, trying and failing to steady his breathing._ _

__

__

__

___'Don't do anything stupid. Don't do what I wouldn't do, and definitely don't do what I would do. There's a gray area in there. That's where you operate.'_ _ _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Even if you run away,  
> You still see them in your dreams.


	4. Only Five Shadows

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Five years feeling every minute of being nothing more than dust does something to you. In and out of words. Seeing death and feeling nothing - like a hibernation where you’re half awake and half dreaming._  
>  The child form of his younger self thought he’d see him all the time.  
> The child form of his younger self, just a little older, eventually thought that he’d never see Tony with Peter in the picture.  
> His current self is regretting the lost time that he’ll never get to make up.
> 
>  
> 
> _Maybe he just can't tell Heaven from Hell._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The original song is [here!](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=DPL_SV3n7IU), and it's an absolute masterpiece that you should listen to (but if you don't that's okay! I just like the song a lot). When/if you have time that is!
> 
> BIG thank you to [SexiestSwine(Mitaki1812)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mitaki1812/pseuds/SexiestSwine) for helping AND inspiring me to put this chapter together!
> 
> Sorry the release is late! I have no set schedule yet but damn finals are kicking my ass. Anyways hope you enjoy!

###### Summary:

_“Hey,” a voice calls from down the hall, coming up over the stairs, Peter very gingerly walking up the last of the stairs as he comes up across Harley. “Morgan’s uh…” The sounds of a disgruntled who doesn’t want to brush their teeth comes from beyond the bathroom door. “Yeah. Figured.” Peter stopped talking entirely for a moment, letting the silence take over them before fumbling in his jacket pocket, fishing out a small picture in a metal polished frame_ _  
“Found this in the garage-- Don’t ask why I was in there!” He hands the picture to Harley, pulling his hand away quickly as though he didn’t want to offend him._

 

_It's so dark tonight._  
_But you'll survive._  
_Certainly._

 

 

The wind whipped through Harley’s hair, stinging his eyes dry as he drove. It’s silent, Peter’s looking the other way. Morgan, recovering from a sugar high then immediately a crash in the backseat, plush bunny clutched to her chest as she rests her head against the car door. There’s quiet music playing, soft Pink Floyd, It’s quiet. Harley’s always liked it that way. 

 

‘ _ So, so you think you can tell’  _

 

Peace and quiet, that’s what Harley lives in. Lives for. The nights with nothing but his own thoughts, which, while occasionally railing off downhill and leaving him with his face on the desk, hand clutching a Phillips’ screwdriver, were interrupted when A.B.B. would drop something. The orange arm, like a twin to DUM-E, rotating over to face Harley in surprise. That’d wake him up of course. However even then, it was always quiet. 

 

‘ _ Heaven from Hell,’  _

 

So why is it so odd, now? Of all times. With a sleeping child in the backseat, a good song on the radio. Maybe it’s the eye that’s often flickering over to him from his right. That faint movement that he can catch just out of his peripheral vision that’s beginning to make him bite the tip of his tongue off. Out of the corner of his eye, Harley can see, blatantly obviously, that Peter’s glancing at him with those annoyingly rich, oak brown eyes. Maybe it’s making him angry, maybe it’s making him want to slap him ‘till he gets some goddamn explanation but Jesus Christ, Harley’s getting annoyed. He doesn’t get it - why? Why does he keep looking at him like that, almost like he’s expecting something? Then the head turns to look more out the window, instead of at Harley. Shunning him with a messy mop of brown hair that shone in the sun like melted chocolate. It’s finally quiet, and the steam building up in Harley’s head can finally slowly let itself out through his ears. The gentle strumming of guitar fills the air, replacing the...more than likely one sided tension, allowing the color to flush out his previously white knuckles. Parker’s head tilts back, every so slightly. Wow. Because suddenly that wonderful, ten-second long silence  _ vanishes _ . 

 

‘ _ Blue skies from pain _ . _ ’ _

 

Harley doesn’t know how much longer he can take this. This...non-verbal, confusing action that looks like some sort of handless, footless, humanoid version of morse code. The eyes flickering back to look at him. Though this time they remain on Harley for a longer time than the others, as if feeling it’s safe to look… “Stop doing that.” Harley says pointedly. It’s not safe. No. Harley’s ears might be damaged as hell from all the mechanic shit but his eyes work great. If that eye thing is about how he’s driving? What right has  _ this _ guy got, to be  _ any _ passenger-seat driver? Hell no. 

 

“Doing what?” Peter asks, raising a brow and looking towards him. He lifts his head off of the palm of his hand. 

 

Great, Harley didn’t ask for the  _ full attention _ of  _ Peter Parker _ . He lets his eyelids close for a moment, fluttering open, almost blatantly annoyed, dragging his eyes in their wake. Peter, after receiving no answer for a mere ten seconds, turns his head back, waits for five seconds, then his eyes flash back to Harley. 

 

‘ _ Can you tell a green field’ _

 

“See? That,  _ right there _ .” Harley frowns, looking back to him from the road and waving a hand at him before returning it to the black driver’s wheel and looking to the road again. The steering wheel is hot beneath his hands, sweaty, too. He moves his hands from 9 o’clock and 3 o’clock to 10 o’clock and 2 o’clock. The touch is cool now and his hands aren’t as slippery. Why is he sweating in the first place? Harley’s lips pull into a tight semi-frown. Part of him doesn’t understand why this is so difficult, the ride to the burger shop wasn’t nearly as bad. The more he sits here, though, the more he begins to ponder. Maybe not as reflective, but more...angry. ‘ _ You should’ve spent more time with him. Should’ve tried to.’  _ It’s something he can’t change and it’s something he refuses to accept. 

 

So why did it go from visits, late night inventing and calls, diminishing to nothing...in the span of a few months? The moment Spider-Man got a new suit, Harley knew it wasn’t his own. Harley had a gut feeling that Spider-Man wasn’t the one who made it. After an extraordinarily rare visit to The Man’s tower, that was when he found it. The designs. In fact, he’d talked to Peter once or twice over the comm system and he never knew. 

 

“ _ Boss can’t come to the phone right now.” _ Harley’d said into the comm, when Tony had walked out of the room. He’d been able to make a robotic voice of his own that sounded pretty damn close to Friday. Kidding, no, he’d asked Friday to tell Peter for him. 

 

“ _ Hey Friday - tell him I called! I’ll call back later.” _ End of call. Hang up. Nada. It’s do and done and Harley was gripping at his pen, chewing on the end as he turned around, back to inventing again. There was a bitter taste in his mouth, like he’d thrown up WarHeads Candy into his mouth and swallowed it out of reflex. Tony had walked back in and they got back to inventing like nothing happened. 

 

‘Cept that Friday didn’t tell Tony that Peter had called. 

 

‘ _ From a cold steel rail? _

_ A smile from a veil?’ _

 

Harley’s snapped back out of his thoughts. Peter has his hands up defensively, like he’s trying to protest his innocence to something. “Whatever. You still did it.” He doesn’t even know what he’s angry about anymore. Though the words come off less angry and more snarky and teasing. “I must look like a god or something to you with how much you keep glancing at me,” he comments nonchalantly, forcing a different facial expression and attitude with about as much fluidity as water. Eyebrows raised, the slight head shake when he says it. Lips puckering out for just a moment, shoulders shrugging. “Or I just make you slack-jawed.”  __

 

The comments were made sparingly from Harley’s side, but it was even more surprising considering Peter hadn’t spoken once other than the quick question as to what he meant. “I hadn’t-- You just,” he stuttered through his answer, annoyance lacing his tone given that Harley seemed pissed at him for nothing. “Look, you want me to be honest?” Peter asked, turning his body toward Harley.

 

Harley raises a brow from behind his sunglasses, eyes glancing to look at him without turning his head. Quickly, he glances in the rear-view mirror to check for a sleeping Morgan, and his eyes move back to Peter after seeing the girl still conked out. He didn’t ask for Peter to be honest. Didn’t ask for him to say anything, really. Bitter that, for so long, years really, most if not all of the conversations he can recall with Tony had been about Peter. How smart he is, how good, how proud Tony was of him. Harley’d seen pictures, he’d seen him in action. Even watched him at school for a few moments. But after meeting him, Harley really isn’t even sure  _ what _ he expected. Stung to know that Peter had no idea who Harley even was. 

Maybe it was better that way. 

 

“Sure. Go for it. Tell me everything,” Harley says, pointing his eyes back to the black of the road, between the lines on the middle and side. “Don’t even beat around the bush. I’ve talked to you for what,” he looks at the clock, “Almost six hours now? Just tell me.” 

 

“After,” Peter responded simply, turning his head and looking back out the window, resting his head on his hand, against the ledge of the car window. “When we get back I’ll bare all for some guy I’ve known six hours.” He sounded sarcastic about it, defeated even. Then again this was the kid that introduced himself as ‘Peter Parker’ to a woman from space who saved his life so, who was he to talk about getting too open too quickly.

 

‘ _ Do you think you can tell?’ _

 

Some guy he’s known six hours. Known. The word strikes him like a brick on the head. Harley’s cheeks burn for just a moment before cooling down as he looks away. The words of the song are hitting him, too. Grip tightening on the driver’s wheel, Harley tries to ignore it. Tries to block it all out but it’s not working like it normally does. Bringing one hand up, he pushes his glasses to be positioned more on his face, before returning it to the while. “Sure.” He says flatly. He can taste the bitterness on his tongue and suddenly, he doesn’t want to go back to the cabin. 

 

‘ _ And did they get you to trade?’ _

He’s got a precious gift in the back that’s he’s sworn to protect with all his might, though. That’s not gonna stop for some boy who’s been told nothing. Harley wants to go back home. Be alone. It’s like burning acid in his stomach and an anvil in his chest how badly he wants to go home. 

 

Another brick to the head. Another foot to his heart. Stomping, twisting, burying in a muddy puddle of tears and sadness, yadda yadda. Go back home  _ to what?  _ Right,  _ nothing and no one _ . Except A.B.B. He counts. Yeah. He counts a lot. 

 

‘ _ Your heroes for ghosts?’ _

 

Maybe if Harley’d had superpowers of some sort, Tony would’ve stuck with him more. Maybe it wouldn’t have been so hard when his mom went to sleep. Maybe it would’ve been easier to cope when his sister’s laugh faded that one time, and kept fading from his memory. He would’ve had someone else to protect. Something else to do. 

 

Other than stare at the scratcher tickets in a 7-Eleven, buying them only to set them on fire at later time for some comfort. 

 

_ ‘Hot ashes for trees? _

_ Cold comfort for change?’ _

 

He could’ve been more, done more. He could  _ do _ more. At the very least he could’ve done something. Would Tony have looked at him like he looked at Peter? The same warm pride in the gleam of his eyes and the same smile? Would it have been different? 

 

_ ‘And did you exchange _

_ A walk on the part in the war’ _

 

Maybe Tony’d even be alive. 

 

Maybe he could’ve made that much of a difference. 

 

Or maybe he’d still be locked up in a garage with reminders of his hero. His mentor. Maybe he’d still be sitting in the corner of a garage with gifts from a friend. 

 

_ ‘For a lead role in a cage?’ _

 

* * *

 

The rest of the drive, Harley realized how angry he was at himself for being half dazed with Morgan in the car. It’s fine when he’s alone. Yeah, maybe if Peter’s just sitting there too, but Morgan? No. He couldn’t believe it. The pressure in his chest and throat as he wakes up, pulling back to the cabin, everyone gone, except for Pepper, Happy, and Rhodey on the porch. Drinking out of wine glasses, rocking on the long swing, looking out over the balcony and into the trees. It’s still bright, but the sun’s gonna set in an hour or two.

  
  


Harley parks the car, turns off the engine, gets out, and doesn’t even wait for Peter to get out this time. He immediately shuts his door and opens the back door, gently waking the sleepy girl. Picking up her bunny in one arm, and her in the other, he walks her to the porch, nodding at Pepper, Happy, and Rhodes. They look at him, almost about to speak, at least, until Harley nods to the sleepy Morgan and continues walking inside. 

 

It doesn’t take terribly long to convince Morgan to get in her pajamas and brush her teeth and hair. In fact, it was pretty easy to bribe her into it. 

 

“But I’m sleepy, Harls…” She had said, being walked into the bathroom by Harley, who waits by leaning against the doorframe. 

 

“I’ve got a gift for you,” he hums. 

 

“You do?” Her eyes still look sleepy and her voice is dripping with ‘I’m tired’. 

“I’ll give it to you, but only after you get ready for bed, Little Missy.” 

 

The bribe is over with and done, and Harley moves out of the bathroom door frame so she can close it. He leans against the wall outside her bedroom door, something clasped in his hand. He crosses his arms and puts his feet out just slightly, vouching to look towards the ground instead. 

 

He wants to go back to his shitty bed and he doesn’t want to get up. 

 

“Hey,” a voice calls from down the hall, coming up over the stairs, Peter very gingerly walking up the last of the stairs as he comes up across Harley. “Morgan’s uh…” The sounds of a disgruntled who doesn’t want to brush their teeth comes from beyond the bathroom door. “Yeah. Figured.” Peter stopped talking entirely for a moment, letting the silence take over them before fumbling in his jacket pocket, fishing out a small picture in a metal polished frame  
“Found this in the garage-- Don’t ask why I was in there!” He hands the picture to Harley, pulling his hand away quickly as though he didn’t want to offend him.

 

The picture showed Harley and Tony, either taken recently or five years ago, Peter couldn’t tell, there weren’t any identifying years in the photo for him to suss out. Grease and oil stains, disheveled hair, torn ratty clothes notwithstanding, he looked the same. Tony’s smile killed him, but he could see even in a still image how happy he looked with Harley. There was a hint of something evident in Peter’s voice, something that didn’t sit well with Harley, but he wasn’t about to ask what it was right away. “Garage is… covered in ‘em. Pictures of you that is. I-- Yeah. I thought you’d… Yeah.”  
  
Peter left before Harley could say anything, leaving him with a picture in a brushed metal frame, and his thoughts, and a strange tone he couldn’t quite place. He stares down at the frame in his hand. Yeah. He remembered taking photos on devices. They were jokes, most of the time. Tony’d send them to Harley and Harley would work his ass off, from ten years old all the way to before… yeah… trying to get them printed. For the extra money he never had, to save a picture. 

 

He’d gone back one day, to his garage, and the pictures were gone. Not missing. Burned, to the ground. His whole garage was ash. Every little bit - and he could nearly tell which piece was which - reduced to nothing but a mangled, black, broken promise of a memory. 

 

He hadn’t left the garage for days after that. Harley remembers very clearly sitting in the silence, in the middle of nothing, roof falling down in the snow. He didn’t know who did it or what did it or how it happened. But what he’d done was ignore a text from Tony Stark. Not just one. Quite a few, really. Three days in of barely even moving, he heard footsteps, but didn’t take his eyes off of his knees. 

 

_ “Told you that if I called you better pick up. Same thing goes for text messages.”  _

 

Tony’s old words, rung in his head, stunning him now as much as they did then. Harley’s eyes clear with a shake on his sleeve from a girl who… for some reason he blanks on. His chest tightens. How could he have even blanked on Morgan? He couldn’t have. She pulls on his arm again and his heart sinks as he looks from the picture to her. 

 

“Harley?” She asks. Her voice is gentle and almost scared. 

 

“Hey, kiddo,” Harley forces a chuckle though it’s pinched and constricted by the tightness of his throat. Droplets of salty tears splatter the glass of the picture. A recent picture, really. Somewhat recent… if someone who’s been missing for five years could say that. “You ready for bed?” 

 

“Tell me a story, Harls.” Morgan asks, taking his hand and dragging him into her room. 

 

She doesn’t ask about the gift. 

 

* * *

 

The bed’s warm. It’s soft and it’s cradling all Harley’s pressure points fantastically while keeping the rest of his body supported, almost like he’s sleeping on one of the Purple Mattresses from the advertisements on YouTube. It bothers him, almost kills him not to know. Harley stands up and lifts the blankets up, pulling up the fitted sheets after turning on the lamp. 

 

It’s one of the Purple Mattresses. 

 

The fitted bed sheet pops back down with the sound of elastic as suspected.

 

Walking over to the windowsill and resting his hands on the dark wood, Harley’s eyes stare back at himself through a semi-transparent reflection in glass. It’s raining. There’s a layer of condensation on it, cold. The glass is radiating cold as well, and it bounces off of the back of his hands before it rests its translucent coat down to absorb into his skin, to send a chill up his spine with its icy claws. 

 

Where is he? 

 

Right. The cabin. 

 

Now, why is he here… 

 

Oh. 

 

Morgan pleaded with him to stay. Pepper had walked in… he couldn’t say no. But standing there, in the extra night clothes he kept in his backpack, he realizes he doesn’t want to be here anymore. The cold sliding its way up his boxers and under his old, black t-shirt. He doesn’t want to be here. He can’t be here. 

 

Against the windowsill his hands are shaking. He stares at himself, greeted with nothing but an empty expression and tired, sullen eyes. Dark rings below them. He leans in, and he stares into the eyes of a void of bitterness, guilt, and anger. A sea of it, crashing over him, wave by wave, pulling him helplessly down under with it’s raging force, throwing his head and dragging his body along the sharp dead coral and menacing rocks. He can practically feel the rough surfaces cutting into his skin, his body reacting by bleeding out. The salt of the waves infiltrating the wounds and burning them. 

 

‘ _ Thud!’  _ Cold wet glass meets his forehead, snapping him awake from his half dream. He can’t, no, he  _ shouldn’t _ , be here. Physically? Sure. Mentally? Not in that place right now. 

 

He turns around, legs numb, arms numb. It feels like trying to lift a hundred pounds with each step and he stumbles, falling over to hit his head on the nightstand, scrape it on part of the bed. He couldn’t tell if it was metal or not. A line burns from his left forehead down to just near his eye, cold feeling of a snake along his face causing the light hairs on his arms and back of his neck stand up. His arms shake as he gets back up, rolling onto his back. Reaching down between his legs he grabs the pair of jeans by the end of the bed.

 

The wood is hard and Harley’s mind is racing while he tries to pull them on, thrashing his body about on the wooden floor, struggling to get his legs in. ‘ _ I can’t… I… I can’t do it… _ ’ But the legs eventually slip on. His head hits the nightstand again. The cold, sticky snake eats and crawls its way along his skin, fluttering by his eyelashes, coiling down to his jawline. 

 

Harley stands, snatching his jacket off of the bedpost and shoving his feet into socks, stubbing his first toe against the wood of the dresser, and a curse word explodes its way up his throat but he bites down on his tongue. Socks on. He thrusts his feet into tied converse, the sock pulling up uncomfortably between his toes and the edge of the shoe cutting into his heel but he makes it. He makes it out the door to the room, after picking his backpack off of the floor. 

 

He makes it out of the hallway to the kitchen after passing the stairs. The picture that Peter found is still there. Though this time it’s sitting up and it’s foreign, like another language trying to ward off evil. 

 

‘ _ I shouldn’t be here.’ _

 

The cold snake slithers down his neck, brushing and melting into the fabric of his shirt. It’s camouflaged now. Sticking out stark against the white of his skin but blending in to the dark of the shirt. The head is gone, and so is Harley, from the cabin. Hand on car door handle, attempting to rip it open with no such luck. It’s locked, he knew that… he knows that… he knew that… 

There’s a chirping response and this time the car door opens. This time, Harley can escape into the confines of a seat, a wheel, pedals. Boxed in by metal with access to a noise to plug up his somewhat deafened ears. The engine roars to life with a sick roar, and Harley wastes no time backing out of the land, turning the sports car around. He wastes no time in drilling the gas pedal down and listening to the sound of the roaring engine as time seems to slow and all there is… is the road, the stars, and no land. Nothing off in the distance for some time. 

 

There’s nothing. Then there is something. 

 

His phone hums to life, chiming a default tone. Instantly Harley’s foot is on the brake pedal of the car, pushing down hard. The tires squeal against the dark asphalt, glittering with a million dirty diamonds in the moonlight. 

 

The engine purrs as Harley looks down at his phone, lighting up the vast sea of darkness in his car. 

 

He had a feeling about what he might see. He didn’t want it. He never had, really. This isn’t what he wants. This isn’t what he’s wanted for over ten years. 

 

There’s silence. Then there is noise. 

 

The radio blasting to life and the car engine roaring once again as Harley pushes down on the gas and the car obeys, listening and feeling his heart’s desire to get free. It’ll be hell trying to get through the traffic of New York but it’s nothing he can’t take. 

 

* * *

 

The traffic is bad, but better than he thought it’d be. His car is able to weave through it, ignoring the bustle of chatter even at night, ignoring the yelling of the car horns and the hands aiming rude gestures at him. 

 

Everything he’s doing is legal, they just need to move their asses. 

 

Harley’s hands are turning white, the wheel sticky beneath his sweaty palms and he’s all the way leaned back in his seat. Arms shaking and hair on end. The snake begins to coil itself over his left eye, surfing on dangerous territory to seek entry past his eyelids. He closes the eye and when he opens it, minute later as he drives down, pushing just past the speed limit, through the streets of New York, his sight is gone. A sea of dark engulfs it, spilling over half of his field of vision like a spilled bottle of ink. His eyelashes stick together when he tries to blink it away. 

 

Tearing one hand away from the steering wheel is like trying to pull it off after slathering the wheel with super glue. It’s firmly drived and when his fingers finally release, the wheel jerks to the right and he smacks himself in the eye. 

 

A scream erupts from his throat when he almost hits a pedestrian - swerving left and damn near missing the stop light by yanking the wheel right, headed straight for a semi that bellows its horn. Tears are streaming down his face and Harley’s pulling the wheel left again, steady down a road that’ll lead him out of hell and to the safe confinements of  _ nowhere _ . He can’t see. 

 

_ ‘How I wish, how I wish you were here.’ _

 

It’s burning, like his eye is on fire. The cold snake isn’t slowing down. Pouring down his nose and over his lips and the radio is blaring it’s music while all Harley can hear is white noise - a loud ringing in his head from something like a gunshot. Glass cracking. He brings his hand from his eye and attaches it back to the steering wheel, crying out and pulling it left to stay on the road. 

 

_ ‘We’re just two lost souls’ _

  
There’s a hole, spiralling out in radial, ornate breaks...there’s two holes, with webs of cracks, along the glass of his back two windows and he screams because all he can remember is the little girl sleeping there earlier. His head swings around, his body practically shaking, his head spinning and there’s another scream, the one in front of him but from his own ears, as he turns back to face the road again, swerving back on his side, between the cars. ‘ _Can’t see! Can’t see! Stop drivi- can’t see! It’s gone - t’s all gone your vision it’s leaving you just like everything else! Harley please, pull over before you do something you’ll regr-’_

 

The voice is his head is his own but just like everything else. 

 

When he needs it, it goes silent. It fails him. 

 

Because he keeps driving and he keeps shaking, and he keeps crying and he keeps swearing. He keeps leaning forward, and he keeps blinking. His eyelashes are sticky and they get caught in a tangled mess along each other. The snake slithers into his mouth, spilling itself into the lines of his teeth and the lines of his gums. It invades and it spits its copper, metallic, sticky venom along Harley’s tongue and expects him to swallow without complaint and just to accept his death. The gas pedal is still pressed down the the cityscape is beginning to diminish. 

 

‘ _ Swimming in a fishing bowl,’ _

 

The buildings and their lights dwindle down and Harley’s still shaking because now he’s alone. Now it’s quiet. Save for the radio and the growl of his car’s engine. “Please! God, whatever you are if you’re up there, wherever the hellish fuck, don’t lemme… don’t lemme…” the tears stream into his mouth and now the venom is salty copper as his mouth gapes and his lip curls down in a mournful cry. Saliva, salt, and copper mix together and spill out of his mouth, dribbling down his chin onto his pants, and his arms. Gliding down his neck like a second, thicker, larger snake.

 

_ ‘Year after year,’ _

 

The smoothness of the road changes from the streets of New York, worn down but funded enough to fix, changed to the outskirts. Driving near the side of train tracks, Harley can hear the horn of the train and he opens his mouth to the sound of nothing not even his own head can hear, breaking into a scream. Vocal chords being absolutely  _ shredded _ as they vibrate, challenging the noise of the train and failing. The car engine thunders as he shifts it into gear and pushes the gas pedal harder, leaning forward and damn near touching his forehead to the top of the wheel. He can taste the leather of the wheel, lifting his head to the road. Lights of the train he’s racing glaring too brightly into his right eye, the darkness of the void blanketing over his left. 

 

_ ‘Running over the same old ground.’ _

 

The train is falling behind, unable to keep up with the speeding car. Train lights beginning to fade but blurring from Harley’s diminished vision with the tears welling up in his eyes again. The rumble of the train on the tracks is gone but his head is still blasting a high ringing pitch. Head throbbing as he urges the car to go faster, faster. ‘ _ Can’t do this… can’t… can’t do this you can’t do this… you’re gonna die, gonna die like this… _ ’ His hands grip the wheel tight, faint few lights appearing in the distance. Gas station. The gas pedal is less apparent under the numbness of his legs. The car’s still racing, he can’t feel his left leg. All over both legs there’s the pricking of a thousand needles over and over again. Harley pushes through it, ignoring the pain up his leg with he slams down on the break, coming up beside the gas station. It lurches him forward, slamming his head against the top of the wheel. Harley stays there for a moment, inching the car forwards, past the gas station, with the wooden indian statue. It used to have a poncho, he remembers out of the blue. His body starts shaking again and he drives towards an empty garage. Before turning down the street, through Rose Hill. 

 

_ ‘What have we found?’ _

 

He sticks the key in the ignition and turns it, shutting the car off. In front of him, tall shadows dance and flicker on the wall in the faint light of candles. Stepping out of the car, Harley stumbled, the needles jabbing further into his leg. The song’s still playing, connected to his phone, echoing softly from his pocket but he doesn’t care. He staggers on, the crosses and stones coming up further. There’s still flowers grouped and clustered around the gravestones. Harley sits in front of it, on a short bench, jacket pulled around him tightly in the cold air. It bites at his skin, fights with the snake still slithering down the side of his head, the snake under his chin. His hands clasp onto each other, and he turns his one sided gaze up to the display. The crater decorating the ground like some twisted ash garden.

 

_ ‘The same old fears.’ _

 

Tears stream out of his eyes again. He doesn’t realize they’re closing, and the world is beginning to turn sideways, slowly. He doesn’t realize the snake crossing over into his right eye as the world shifts sideways to the right. Harley doesn’t notice how badly his head is throbbing, how sore his throat is. His heart hurts. Every beat like the pounding of a hammer, squeezing his chest so hard. The light of the graves that Chad Davis put there are slowly beginning to fade. One by one, the five shadows begin disappearing as the world is swallowed up by black. Five shadows. Not six. The cold covers him in a blanket empty of empathy and Harley’s breathing slows down. It’s quiet. It’s peaceful. There’s nothing to worry about now.

 

‘ _ Wish you were here.’ _

_'Yeah...makes sense. Think about it. Six dead and only five shadows.'_

_'Yeah...well...people said these shadows are like the mark of souls going to heaven. 'Cept the bomb guy. He didn't go to heaven on account of he didn't get a shadow. That's why there's only five.'_

_'Do you buy that?'_

_'It's what everyone says.'_

######  . . . . . . . . . . 

**Incoming text from blocked number...**

**Blocked Number:**

_This message is an automated response. Please do not reply unless it is important, and we will pass your reply to the sender._

_Message entails:_  
**_It’s time to come home, son._ **

**This message was sent to you by Mayor Norman Osborn. ******

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's so dark tonight...  
> but you'll survive...  
> certainly.


	5. Spirtless Home

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Five years feeling every minute of being nothing more than dust does something to you. In and out of words. Seeing death and feeling nothing - like a hibernation where you’re half awake and half dreaming._  
>  The child form of his younger self thought he’d see him all the time.  
> The child form of his younger self, just a little older, eventually thought that he’d never see Tony with Peter in the picture.  
> His current self is regretting the lost time that he’ll never get to make up.
> 
>  
> 
> _Maybe he just can't tell Heaven from Hell._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The original song is [here!](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=DPL_SV3n7IU), and it's absolutely great. I really love Cavetown and I'm glad the song was there just to write off of. 
> 
> BIG thank you to [SexiestSwine(Mitaki1812)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mitaki1812/pseuds/SexiestSwine) for helping AND inspiring me to put this chapter together!
> 
> Okay:  
> It's been a REALLY long time since I last updated. I'm immensely sorry for the huge wait ! don't worry, though... there's more to come. :^] Hope you enjoyed!
> 
> The song Peter is listening to in detention and throughout a bit of the story is called Starlight Brigade, and it's by TWRP ft. Danny Avidan. Thank u Mitaki !!

###### Summary:

_He doesn’t need to punch the kid, though. Because the moment Peter decides he couldn’t do it - there’s a fist planted right in Davis’ face and a loud yell that follows. The face of the kid who decked him is hidden by a mop of wavy brown hair, wet and uncombed, down in his face. Once Davis is on the floor, though, the face is a little more visible. Cut up, slightly bruised, and more tired and rageful than ever - standing there over Davis and next to his cowering friend...  
..is Harley Keener._

__

_It's alright._  
_Come inside._  
_Talk to me._

It’s still raining outside, the pitter patter of drops against the glass window, covered by dark blue curtains, sounding louder than they should be. Everything’s like that, though. The day’s dark, gray and gloomy - like an ironic fit to the way things are in literally every single movie. The electric clock on the nightstand next to him says 6:37 in bright red, bold numbers. Class starts at 7:45. Great. Just great. He stares at the clock again, his eyes feeling heavy, weighed down by the events of just the past week or so. Fuck school, he wasn’t going to school. He grabbed his phone off the nightstand quickly, sending a message to May, informing her of his decision, before pulling the thick duvet covers back over his head.  


This is too much, far too much for one kid to handle, and Peter finds himself hating the thought of the sun more than he hates the thought of walking with heavy books down an ungrateful hallway. First day back he heard some kid disparage Tony, called him a menace, before saying he was ‘glad or whatever’ that everyone was back, but he sure as shit didn’t sound it.

First day back Peter had to hold himself back from punching the lights out of some random kid.

He did hear about someone else doing his job for him though, so he couldn’t really say he was mad about it. Kid deserved it. So did anyone who thought that Tony deserved to die. 

That doesn’t matter now, he isn’t at school now, he’s at Tony’s cabin, and even though he hasn’t been here before, Peter knows it’s intensely cold without him. Pepper feels more withdrawn, and even though everyone knows Morgan’s just a little too young to understand right now, she’d know in the future. What her dad died for. It’d be taught in history classes, lesson plans made about the impact Iron Man made on the world, and she’d know her dad as words on a page. Memories of him as who he was, feeling like a dream from long ago. Peter doesn’t want to think about that.

And yet here he is thinking it.

There’s no use for it, he isn’t going back to bed now, at least not for a while, so he got up, flinching slightly at the cold of the hardwood floor against his feet, dragging a plush blanket around his shoulders instead of a shirt. Why have a shirt when you could make yourself a blanket burrito? He made his way down the hall to the other guest room, giving the door a ginger knock before stepping inside.

“Hey Harley…?” Peter starts, just as he walks in, but there’s no one in the room. The lamp’s on, knocked over but leaning up against the bed… the sheets in a tangled mess, half on-half off the mattress. There’s what looks like some sort of remnant of fabric by the nightstand, the clock’s been set on the bed. There’s blood, everywhere, against the window and floors, but there is no body that it belongs to. It isn’t like he’s squeamish at the sight of blood, or a messy scene, but Peter did have to wonder what happened here just a few hours before he made his way to Harley’s room.

There isn’t much of a need to look out the window to double check on Harley’s car, but Peter did it anyway, only to find it gone. Figures. If he had the choice he isn’t sure he’d be here either, but Peter finds it more comforting to be around the essence of Tony, effigies of his life, than to be away from any and all semblance of him at the moment. There’s a picture of Peter that stood in the kitchen that he’d seen the night earlier, he didn’t bring it up to Harley though, but he felt proud. Knowing Tony cared enough about him to have a reminder of him somewhere.

The whole house feels like a massive tribute to everyone that had touched Tony’s life in someway, the garage belongs to Harley, there are smatterings of Peter, Nebula’s weird space metals and a wrench Pepper had said Tony was very protective of. He caught sight of Pepper showing a picture to Steve, who looked distinctly relieved with his arm around Bucky, thanking her before she put it away. He could only assume that Tony only had so many items reminding him of Steve’s place in his life, the small amount must’ve been enough for Steve though. 

Peter idly wonders, as he steps down the stairs, how Tony would’ve taken Steve retiring after returning The Infinity Stones, and Mjolnir, passing the baton onto Sam. Not that Peter could blame him, Steve deserved to be a little selfish after everything. If living out his years with Bucky was what he wanted, Steve deserved it. The man was still young, he deserved to be young with someone he loved. He wondered what that’d be like, surveying Pepper in the kitchen, fussing over something to make for Morgan, having someone to love and live out his life with. If someone asked Peter wouldn’t be able to place a finger on it, but he didn’t think that was necessarily in the cards for him. Not for a while anyway.

It’s still grey out, the morning sun hidden behind thick grey clouds pouring sheets of rain, like the world was mourning Tony Stark. Outside on the deck Peter could see Steve and Bucky drinking coffee, idly chatting about whatever it is Super Soldiers chatted about. Workout routines? Honour? Justice? Patriotism? Probably not but he laughs at the idea anyway, like Cap and Bucky even needed to think about working out. 

“Hey Peter!” Pepper calls, snapping him from his reverie. “You’re up earlier than I thought you’d be.” There’s a smile on her face, and Peter can’t even fathom how she pulls it off.  
“Mornin’ Ms. Pot -- Pepper!” She smiles at him amusedly, turning to tend to two frying pans she has on the stove, both filled to the brim with eggs. “What’s with the uh… intense amount of eggs?”

“For the pair of Adoni out there,” she says, her head nodding past the door. “Gotta eat a lot to keep up looking like _that_ I’d imagine.” 

Peter can’t help but laugh, his head turning to Steve and Bucky, both staring wistfully out into the rain, it warmed his heart at the sight, but the ever present cold of Harley’s sudden departure stung him. He sat down at the table, glancing at his phone every now and again, with still no response from May, though secretly he was hoping he’d get a message from Harley. How? He didn’t know, Harley didn’t have his number, he didn’t have Harley’s, it’s a fool’s hope. Born purely out of worry and want.

“Shouldn’t you be getting ready for school?” Pepper asks, once again snapping him out of his fog.

“Not going today, I just… I can’t. It’s too… heavy.” 

Pepper hums in response, silent for a moment before looking at Peter from her perch on the stove. “Well you know what Tony would say. ‘Get up, stop feelin’ sorry for yourself.’” Peter laughs at her impression before she continues, “But I think it’s okay to feel a little heavy about it all. God knows I’m not gonna get anything done for the next few days. But I think it’s probably a better idea to go and fail, say that you tried and then try again tomorrow.” Peter was about to protest with a remark before she shut him up pretty effectively with, “It’s what Tony would’ve wanted.”

No arguing with that, of course there wasn’t, Pepper knew Tony best and then there’s the fact that Pepper knows best in general. All he could do is nod in response, making a move to the coffee pot in their expensive looking coffee maker, and a mug from the cupboard.

“You’re right, Pepper… You’re absolutely right.” He saw her smile out of his periphery as she went back to tending to the eggs, just as he pulls his phone out to text May that he changed his mind about school.

* * *

It’s an hour after school starts by the time Peter arrives. Just before passing period, he steps over to his locker and trades out his books for his next class. It’s already hard enough, knowing that all of this is going on and he has to keep going because the world keeps going, too. It’s not going to stop and wait for him. Even though he wishes it would. He pulls out his phone to fire a quick text to Ned, after he realizes he hasn’t seen him at the school yet.

**Peter:**

_Hey bud! Where r u?_

There’s nothing on the screen for a few moments. At least, until the typing bubble pops up. Appearing, disappearing, finally appearing again.

**Ned:**

______im sick man cant go 2 school today_ _____

__  
_ _

**Peter:**

_o shit i hope u feel better_

__  
__  


__**Ned:**  
_ _

__

______thx man. u ok?_ _____

__  
_ _

**Peter:**

_Yeah i'm doing ok! ill see u when u get better_

__  
__

**Peter:**

_gtg class_

**Ned:**  


__

______c u soon man_ _____

__Peter looks down at his phone with a heavy sigh, more than a little annoyed that he wouldn’t be seeing Ned today, maybe MJ was still around? That was a longshot though… He decides to try anyway, pulling up her contact, leaning up against his locker in the hallway._ _

____

____

__  
_ _

**Peter:**

_Hey._

__  
__  


**MJ:**

______Ned's not coming to school, huh._ _____

__  
_ _

**Peter:**

_no he isnt_

__  
__

**Peter:**

_wait how did u know?_

**MJ:**  


______Because you’re lonely and co-dependent._ _____

__**MJ:** __

___And you need someone to be around after the loss of your…. “Stark Internship”_ _ _

____

___  
_

__  
_ _

**Peter:**

_no need for the quotes MJ...._

__  
__  


**MJ:**

_Right. Anyway I’m not gonna be there today either. ___

**Peter:**

_Fr?!?!_

**MJ:**

_Spending some time with the fam, after spending time as a dust bunny._

**MJ:**

_Surprised May isn’t clinging to you. ___

**Peter:**

_she is dw. hav fun w ur fam_

**MJ:**

_See ya Petey._

He doesn’t respond back to her, why would he? MJ always speaks with such finality, like her words were to be etched into stone, so sure of herself. Not that he could blame her anyway, five years as a “dust bunny” would definitely be a little jarring, and he had to assume she wasn’t the only one in her family. Peter sighs softly, dejected and tucks his phone back into his pocket, maybe this meant Flash wasn’t going to be here either, wouldn’t that just be a dream. By now the hallways were waning, he knew already he was going to be late to class and in the moment it felt okay. _I’m allowed to be late, I’ve done enough that I can allow myself to be late._ Then the late bell rang out harshly and Peter is running down the hall anyway, of course he couldn’t just _allow_ himself to be late, that was too easy. 

The soles of his sneakers against the stone tiled floors ring out, getting more and more echoey as time went on. Yeah there’s no way he’s gonna make it to Trig. now, not that he’s really excited to go to Trig. anyway. His footsteps fall slower, softer and then not at all when he heard some voices coming down from the other end of the hall.

“I don’t get why it’s such a big deal. Yeah he saved the world a couple times, but there’s like a billion other heroes who’ve done the same thing.”  
“Not a billion other--”

“I know not _literally_ a billion but that’s not the point! Tony Stark knew what he was signing up for!”

“What are you saying right now dude? Like yeah he knew, but that doesn’t mean he deserved it right?”

“The way my dad sees it? None of this would have happened if that egomaniac didn’t make his first flashy suit anyway, and you know what? That’s a hundred percent right.”

There are many things Peter finds himself not expecting today. He didn’t expect for his locker to get stuck three times in a row, he didn’t expect today to be Sloppy Joe day at the cafeteria, just for example. He didn’t expect that after five years of a whole student body being dusted, Mr. Petrelli would open first day back to school with a Pop Quiz, and now he definitely didn’t expect some kid that he’d already heard insulting Tony before do it again right in front of him. He didn’t expect to find a rage boiling inside him, threatening to boil over, until he heard a voice, “Parker! Hey Parker!” Oh no… “Didn’t you have an internship with him?”

“Wh-what? With Tony, yeah I--”

“Ooh _Tony~_! First name basis! Shove off Parker like you knew him at all.”

“I did! I knew him pretty well!”

“Then answer me something, Parker.” He’s scared of the question, because he knows it’s not going to be good. “Didn’t Daddy Stark have some plan? Some contingency, for the apocalypse comin’ to get us?”

“I-- He did it’s just.”

“No dude remember! That’s what Ultron was!!” The second kid pipes up, hitting his friend in the arm, and Peter’s stomach was starting to churn.  
“Right! What a fucking failure! He couldn’t protect us from anything big, and he died to reverse something he already failed at! What a loser!”  
Peter clenches his fist, his jaw tightening dangerously, inadvertently grinding his teeth together. “You keep Tony’s name out of your mouth, Davis.”  
“Oh someone’s getting testy! Whatever, Parker it’s not like he was your dad. Calm the fuck down.” 

Davis and his friend walk away past Peter after that, his friend throwing a consolatory smile over his shoulder as he walked alongside Davis, and Peter stood there feeling acid in his throat. Acid, and the insatiable need to punch some pissant kid named Davis. He turns on his heel in the direction Davis walked, trying to come up with the gumption to actually do it, to actually punch this kid in the face but… he can’t. He won’t. As much as Tony as Peter would’ve loved to have been, he isn’t. He isn’t like Tony, at least not in the places he thought it counted. 

He doesn’t need to punch the kid, though. Because the moment Peter decides he couldn’t do it - there’s a fist planted right in Davis’ face and a loud yell that follows. The face of the kid who decked him is hidden by a mop of wavy brown hair, wet and uncombed, down in his face. Once Davis is on the floor, though, the face is a little more visible. Cut up, slightly bruised, and more tired and rageful than ever - standing there over Davis and next to his cowering friend is Harley Keener. 

“Funny how you’re supposed to learn lessons at school,” he hisses, glaring down at Davis who’s cradling his face and a bloody nose. “You must be _thick-headed_ not to learn the first time.” 

Davis’ friend is shaking, that’s clear enough, but his biggest mistake is trying to throw his own fist at Harley. It doesn’t hit him - the throw was sloppy and Harley easily steps out of the way - and Harley kicks him from behind down onto Davis. He shakes his head, fists still balled and eyes wild as he stares down at them. 

Harley’s head turns up to Peter, in the same breath there’s understanding and sympathy, laced with anger and confusion. He drags his eyes away, down to Davis, frowning. It’s mere seconds before Harley is walking away, the aura around him dipped in rage and sprinkled in hate.

* * *

_When I look up at the sky what meets my eyes?_  
_Can I just stand by while the world dies?_  


He’s lost, staring off into space, just past where Coach Wilson is sleeping at his desk, baseball hat over his eyes to shield from fluorescent lights. Peter allows the music to send him adrift, trying not to think about how apt the lyrics really were. 

_Starship idling nearby... is it my time?_  
_I crawl inside and turn the cockpit clockwise, toward the sunrise._  


The jarring sound of a door being swung upon snaps Peter from his reverie, his arm jolting enough to let his head drop toward the desk before noticing the figure who’d just walked in. A shock of messy brown hair, tall and lanky body standing in the doorway and Peter knew immediately. “Hey,” he said gently while pulling out one headphone, so as not to wake Coach Wilson up.

“Hey,” Harley responds, moving to sit down next to Peter. He crosses his arm on the desk and lays his head down, saying nothing else.

_Lift off!_  
_The firestorm ignites!_  
_Inside the speeding satellite!_  


It’s so brief, and cold, Peter doesn’t exactly know how to respond, should he even respond? Well… it wasn’t like there was anything else going on for the moment, and Coach Wilson was out cold. “I’m assuming your valiant efforts to defend our Dad’s honor landed you here?”

Harley doesn’t respond right away. He tilts his head, keeping it laid on his arms. He looks tired, and not amused at all, for a brief moment maybe even upset. “No. I got sent to detention because I stuck my gum on the underside of the desk.” He puts his head back. 

“Your attempts at sarcasm are extremely not appreciated.” This time it’s his turn to fall silent, eyes darting back and forth between Harley and the door.

_Halfway between the black and grey_  
_It's no place for a life to waste away._  
_I'll take, the road with all the stakes!_  


Nothing ventured nothing gained, that’s probably something Tony would’ve told him, although much more stylish and sardonic. He stares at Harley for a moment, a soft disgruntled sigh leaving his mouth, the ends of his voice upturning into a growl. “What is your problem with me, man? What the hell did I ever do to you??” He could tell he’d struck a nerve before Harley even said anything, and continued before he could respond. “Ever since I met you, you’ve been so put off around me! What the hell man I barely even know you, what the hell did I ever do?”

The other doesn’t move, though. Not for a little while, really. Until he lifts his head and he looks more aggressive than he did the last time he lifted his head. Though this time bruises can be seen - bruises, cuts, scrapes, and a little bit of crusted blood. None of which was there on his face when they met. Harley’s lips pull into a tightly pursed frown, staring at Peter for the longest time. Until his face softens. “He talked about you a lot, you know. _A lot._ Was like I knew you. Had met you. I mean, I’m sure he meant to introduce us at some point, but you know,” his shoulders pull up into a shrug for a moment. Harley leans back in his chair. His voice is almost melancholy, but it’s also bitter. “Pft. Nevermind. Screw this. Not now, not here. Not with you.” Harley eyes Coach Wilson, leans back down to his desk, and lays his head down - this time facing the other way.

_Today, so many moons away I safely say_  
_That my heart's true calling was never betrays_  
_Never betrayed._  


That wasn’t going to fly, not today and not with Peter. The cuts and bruises didn’t go unnoticed, but Peter was a little hard pressed to care for the moment. Well… maybe that was an over exaggeration, he did care and he was worried, but for the moment he was blinded by his own curiosities. “Are you serious?” He looked toward Coach Wilson, then back at Harley frantically, standing up quickly and dragging him outside to the hall. Though it was just outside the door, at least this way he couldn’t wake up Coach Wilson.

“Are you for real?? _This whole time_ you’ve been pissed off at me because Tony talked about me?? Well whoopie for me, but you know what it’s not like he trained me! It’s not like I got to see him all the time! I saw those pictures in the garage, I saw you hanging out with him at fairs, building shit, the way you talk about him - God I can see it all over your face! You knew him better than I did by miles! And you’re pissed at _me_ because Tony talked about me?

“You know he told me a couple of things about you, I didn’t know your name but I knew I had someone to live up to, I knew I had someone that he was comparing me to. I had to live up to you without even knowing you, and you got _all the help_ you could’ve possibly wanted from Tony! I didn’t even get to make my own suits!”

He was furious, more furious than he really wanted to admit, and it wasn’t until Harley was standing in front of him that Peter realized just how furious he was. The garage, filled with pictures of Harley, events and moments from his life, Tony was in most, a lot of them were candid. Taken probably by Dum-E or JARVIS before he was Vision, just capturing the moments for posterity, or maybe it was just on a timer, but they were there. The Garage was plastered with them. What did Peter have? One achievement award photo, a couple of selfies, and a lot of texts.. what could Tony have even possibly said about him, he had no clue.

“Wow.” Is all Harley has to say, crossing his arms, leaning back against the wall. “Is that really what you think of me? Some random ass kid who has a vendetta against you for being spoken so highly of? No!” His fingers flexing around his arm, gripping his jacket tight, letting it go, gripping it again. “Those pictures? Yeah? You look at ‘em? Notice how young I was? Yeah, I was tiny. Nine or so. Maybe a little older. It stopped.” He looks at Peter dead in the eye. “I didn’t idolize him for his money. Or his fame. Or his suits, or his company, any of that _shit._ ” Harley’s lips move up and down, like he’s trying to talk but nothing’s coming out, and his eyebrows furrow. “You have no idea, the _folders_ , and folders full of things he has of you, from you, for you. Some things I’ve helped him with. You really have no idea do you? How lucky you are? I know my luck too! From the handful of people who got to spend time with him like that, and- and-” he groans, leaning to the side, resting his head against a trophy cabinet propped up against the wall. Harley’s eyes close and he pushes Peter away with one arm.

Taking a deep breath he opens his eyes again. “After he found you? I didn’t see him anymore.” Harley’s eyes fall back closed again and he puts his fist on his lips, quickly standing up off of the wall and turning to walk down the hall. “I can’t right now, I-” He puts his fist back over his mouth and goes silent, quickly running down the hallway.

_Arrays of enemies await but fears allay._  
_We stand as one_  
_A bond beyond the last wave, until the last grave._  


Peter knew _exactly_ how lucky he was, it wasn’t like he took it for granted just because he was Spider-Man. Before Tony he was small-time, he didn’t think Tony Stark, freaking Iron-Man himself, would take notice of him. Peter knew of a guy wrecking shop in Hell’s Kitchen that he was pretty sure Tony had no clue about, he knew exactly how lucky he was to get that kind of attention. Why the hell then was it his fault that Tony sorta mentored him, how was it his fault that Tony stopped hanging out with Harley as much? He grunts exasperatedly, pushing the door into the Detention classroom open, stomping inside to grab his bag and go. Coach had been out the whole time, Peter was pretty sure he didn’t give a rat’s ass about this job, so who would even mind if he left a period. He brought his dangling headphone back up to his empty ear, more than happy to get lost back into the music. 

_Last flight!_  
_I'd gladly give my life for one night as a justice acolyte_  
_Light shines only for the blind_  


“This is a bad idea…” Peter says to himself, closing his eyes for a moment before turning heel and walking off after Harley, despite not knowing exactly where he’d gone. Walk down the hall until he figured out where he was, seemed as good a plan as any, the music loud and drowning in his ears. The halls were empty, everything seemed dead, most after school clubs had already let out, and for some reason it put a feeling of unease in Peter. As if stuck in his chest the second he saw Harley run away, and it just kept growing from there.

“Mr. Keener, didn’t I see you earlier today?” Peter’s ears caught the line, just as he was rounding a corner, the door to the Nurse's office flung wide open. Just as he passed he caught sight of Harley just exiting the Nurse’s bathroom, clutching his stomach and wiping his lip.

“There you are!” Peter says, entering the office after him. “What the hell I thought we were-” Deciding it would be better not to let the Nurse in on their tiff earlier, he makes up a lie on the spot. “Working on our math project together! Scared me half to death!”

The Nurse presses a bag of ice wrapped in a thin paper towel to Harley’s head, and he keeps it there with his hand after she pulls her hand away. “Sorry,” he mutters, half dazed. “Felt sick.” The Nurse frowns, looking down at him. 

“What did you eat this morning, Mr. Keener?” The Nurse crosses her arms, but eventually gets back to paperwork while she’s listening.  
Harley mumbles something incoherent as a reply. The Nurse narrows her eyes and sighs. Something hits the floor, though, for the moment Peter looks to the nurse. The ice pack, clattering to the floor as Harley runs right back into the bathroom, door swung open behind him as he puts his face in the toilet and empties his stomach of its contents. It’s loud and it’s everything to make someone squeamish, wet and repulsive, followed by liquid dropping into the toilet, followed by quick dry heaves and a quiet sob. 

The Nurse turns on her swivel chair to face him. “Mr. Keener, I’m sending you home. Do you have anyone you can call, or anyone here who can take you?” 

Harley shakes his hand, head still in the toilet as he coughs several times. 

“I can do it,” Peter pipes up next to the nurse, hitching his bag up against his shoulder to adjust it. “We just gotta get his stuff from the Library and I can take him home.”

“Oh? Alright then Mr. Parker if you’re sure you’re able to take care of him…” Harley’s head was still in the toilet bowl, but there were no protests coming from him for the moment.

“Yeah I’m sure, I can drive him home, so he doesn’t have to leave his car in the school parking lot all day.”

“Then it’s settled, I’ll trust you Mr. Parker to take Mr. Keener home.”

Harley finally pulls away from the toilet bowl and, he doesn’t look happy, but he doesn’t look upset either. His mouth opens to try to talk, maybe protest, but the Nurse shuts him up quickly. “No buts, Mr. Keener. You’re going home.” 

He frowns. But Harley, for once, no matter how upset about it he looks, stays quiet. He’s quiet when they go get his backpack. Harley’s quiet as they walk out to the parking lot, and he begrudgingly hands Peter his keys. “You scratch it, nn,..” he bats his hand and crawls into the passenger seat, too nauseous to really reply. 

Peter laughs gently as he takes Harley’s keys, unlocking the car from the passenger-side door, leading Harley in to sit and buckling the seatbelt for him, while tossing his and Harley’s bags in the backseat. “Yeah I’m assuming you’ll find five million more reasons to hate me right? From the way my hair sits right down to my shoelaces.” He gave himself a cursory look down, grimacing at his own shoes. They were pretty scuffed up. He made quick work getting to the drivers side and strapping himself in, Harley was just a hair taller than he was, but it was enough for him to need to adjust the rearview mirror and the seat, noticing the look of disdain on Harley’s face. “Don’t worry I know how to drive. Auto and stick, you’re in good hands.”

“I’d better be…” he mumbles, bringing his knees up to his chest and resting his head against the window of the car and closing his eyes. “Don’t … ng. Don’t kill us both,” it’s a small mutter but loud enough to hear. Arms wrapped around knees, Harley’s huddled up in the seat looking pale and sickly. When his eyes open just slightly they look slightly bloodshot, until he closes them again. “Drive through the city… big main road. Keep driving until you hit the middle of nowhere.” 

“Ooor I could use your GPS and get you home instead of relying on a guy that looks like he’s about to pass out any second.” He fiddled a moment with the GPS in the car, pulling up the ‘Home’ shortcut, getting directions almost immediately.

_Escape the endless dream of space: black seas that I can't navigate_  
_Locate the great Starlight Brigade_  


Even if he wasn’t driving a very sick looking Harley home, Peter still would’ve been just as nervous to be driving a car like this. He knew he could do it, that wasn’t the problem, it’d just been so long since he was behind the wheel of a car. He peeled out of the parking lot onto the road, following the GPS without much pomp or circumstance. His eyes darted to Harley for a moment just as he took his phone out of his pocket, tossing it to him. “You’re the DJ, put on something good yeah?”

Harley barely catches it, his face going a sickly shade of green for a second before quickly swiping through any playlist he can find, clicking shuffle. The music is quiet, but Hotel California by the Eagles starts playing in the background. Harley sets Peter’s phone up under the clock in a little slot that’ll keep the phone up there. It wouldn’t slide or anything, unless Peter were to wreck the car somehow. 

The GPS shows the drive to be damn near two hours long. A straight line out, a few curves here and there. Soon enough, they’re out in the middle of nowhere. Nothing but green fields and road ahead for what seems like miles. They’re not even in New York anymore, it seems. 

Harley’s eyes opens and he looks out the window. They approach a gas station with a wooden Native American statue, a poncho draped around it’s shoulders. The boy snorts, shaking his head, then groans, regretting his mistake. “Up here,” he mumbles, pointing up at a shitty looking garage and house. It’s big, but it’s certainly not the nicest place ever. “Garage. The one on the right. Top left button.” Then he points up at the mirror, just above, where a set of buttons is. 

Old carpets of faded colors, and stained, rotting wood in the shape of what seems like an old fence, are around the house and garages. It rained here, it seems, the grounds wet and almost black, tiny green plants sprouting from the ground, though of course it seems like they won’t have a chance to grow in whatever weather is here.

_We have come so far_  
_Beyond the most distant star_  
_Starlight within will guide us to the other side_  


The two and a half hour drive honestly didn’t feel nearly as long as the GPS told Peter it was, even with the traffic, which felt strange given that the company he was presented with hadn’t been particularly lively or entertaining. Harley had been quiet and seemingly altogether too morose for Peter to really get any form of interaction. Even still through the pointed silence and the music streaming through his speakers, two hours didn’t feel like but of anything. Happening upon Harley’s house it finally hit him how far from the city they were. They might as well be out in the sticks, a little further past Queens, and he drove into the city to go to school? For two goddamn hours? Even before the Web-swinging Peter didn’t think he’d have the patience.

Well… Maybe for Midtown Science he would.

He pulled into Harley’s driveway, the satisfying crunch of the gravel under the tires being somewhat lessened by how wet everything was, considering it just rained. Peter got out of the car first taking the keys out and shutting the door behind him as he breathed in the smell of air freshly kissed with rain. Petrichor, if he remembered correctly, was what it was called. The smell rain left behind after long bouts of hot and dry weather, you could smell it more out in the sticks than in the city. 

Smells of the city were pleasant in their own way, like the cooling nostalgic smell of the air conditioners right when you entered the subway, the rush of wind that trains left behind. And nothing much could beat the smell of a totally cooled subway car, then stepping out into the night air of the city. Petrichor though, was less like a smell and more like a feeling, a feeling that there were really no substitutions for, and now that he was here Peter didn’t wanna leave, to that end though, he didn’t know how he was going to leave. May was out of town, there was no one to come get him. He supposed he could call Happy… Peter threw a sideways glance Harley’s way as he opened his side of the door, unbuckling him free. No, calling Happy wouldn’t be a very good idea now. “Sorry-” Peter says quietly, reaching back behind Harley and grabbing both their bags, getting them out with grace. “How you feeling Har?”

_Halfway between the black and gray_  
_is no place for a life to waste away_  
_I'll take the road with all the stakes_  


Harley’s hand grips the handle of the door, a half groan half hiss noise sounding from him when he crawls out of the seat. His face is pale - that is, more pale than normal - and he slams the door shut behind him. “Fine.” He answers shortly, trudging along in the mud to the front of the door. The house is simple. Large, old, but simple. It looks like no one’s home, either, as Harley fumbles for his keys and shoves them into the door. It takes him a few moments, before the lock finally clicks, and he throws his shoulder against it. The door doesn’t budge until the fourth time. Inside the house, a dark wood covered by a slightly dirty carpet. Mudroom, boots - all different sizes, though mainly three different sizes, under a bench to the right. Coat hooks on the left. There’s a small pink jacket, a large brown jacket, and then a gray-black jacket that looks about Harley’s size. But those are the most visible.

Past the mudroom, a kitchen on the left. Small, a refrigerator, microwave, dishwasher, oven, stovetop. Sink. It’s square and there’s cabinets above everything and below everything. There’s two tall wooden doors, thin, most likely a pantry.

There’s a bar to the kitchen with four stools, and many objects spread out on it. Screws, screwdrivers, wires, motherboards, scraps of metal and the piles just heap up. Past all that, a small living room with a square tv in front of a long three-seater couch, and a recliner. Both covered in strewn out blankets and a few pillows. On the floor a red patterned carpet, soft but clearly worn from use. Harley heads towards the couch and sits on one end, rubbing his face with his hands. “Should be something in the fridge. You can have it.” He mumbles simply, pulling a pillow up, and bringing his knees up to his chest. The pillow is placed atop his knees, to which he puts his face on. 

It didn’t sound very convincing, the way Harley said “ _Fine._ ” with such finality, looking as if he’d drop dead at any moment. The second Harley got the door open, with a couple of kicks from Peter to follow, it was clear that he had a family here. So then why didn’t his mom come pick him up? Or rather, why hadn’t Harley said he could’ve called someone? Clearly there were other people living here, or at least the place showed signs of life from other people. But it was just them. Alone. The silence, suffocating and loud, permeating through Peter’s ear and he could hear the water dripping from the tap in the kitchen. “Not hungry,” he said simply, but that was a lie. Peter was very hungry, but Harley mattered more in the moment. “I’ll take a charger though, my phones about fried.” He needed an upgrade, this one was on his last legs, he’d try and ask May one more time about it.

Harley stays on the couch for a moment before he flips the TV on. It’s static for a moment, at least until Harley picks up one of the tissue boxes next to him on the coffee table and hurls it at the box. The TV doesn’t flicker anymore. Then, as anyone does, he browses through on Netflix almost aimlessly. “Not hungry? You ate like… three cheeseburgers in one go the other day.” Harley tilts his head to look over at him. “Unless you have a really wild eating schedule, that sure sounds like a lie to me. But really. There’s food if you want it. Chargers on the bar, next to the motherboard. To the left of it. Should be green. It’s plugged in and can extend almost all about the room.” The boy shrugs before turning back to the TV, clicking on the remote over and over again, aimlessly once more. 

It was one helluva setup, wires, chips, boards and cords everywhere. “Wild…” Is all Peter could bring himself to say, wandering as aimlessly as Harley browses Netflix. He plugs his phone into the cord and leaves it there on the counter to charge, then as if by autopilot Peter opens and starts looking through the fridge. There was some in the fridge, but not much, and it had just occurred to him that Harley hadn’t eaten either. “Uhhh you wanna share something? You’re gonna need something in your system after all that… Yeah.” He hoped Harley knew what he was talking about. “And I don’t wanna be *that guy* eating alone y’know? What’cha putting on?”

“Yeah, wild. It’s as clean as I can get it right now,” Harley murmurs, pulling a blanket onto himself. Still, clicking away on the remote, watching the screen as it flips through titles. Maybe there just really isn’t a point to his search, maybe it’s to keep him busy. “I mean, sure, but I’m not really that hungry right now. Besides, if you can’t be *that guy* in my house, then you shouldn’t be here, man.” Harley snorts, shaking his head. “I don’t care if you eat or not, shouldn’t matter if you do or don’t, you know? Microwave’s to the left.” He keeps clicking after getting situated in the blanket. “Dunno yet. Just browsing, and you know how long that can take.” 

“Hah! Yeah I getcha…” He trails off, though he didn’t look back to see exactly what Harry was flipping to. “Hey you remember that one really old show?”

“There’s a lot of really old shows, man, be more specific,” Harley looks at him for a moment before looking back to the TV. 

“Maybe if you let me finish, you’d know which show.” Peter finally came away from the fridge, holding two containers of takeout and walking over to the couch. “I don’t care if you’re hungry, you threw up. You need food.” He sat down quickly, making sure to keep his distance from Harley if he was uncomfortable, leaving one takeout container with a fork on the coffee table. “It was that really old show on Nickelodeon… _6Teen!_ About the kids! In the mall??”

The boy’s eyebrows furrow together when he turns his head to face Peter. “ _6Teen?_ ” He asks. “Nope. Never heard of it. And that’s coming from a kid who watched TV all the time. Also, when I say I’m not hungry, I mean if I eat I might un-eat it right onto your lap.” He snorts softly, turning his head back to the TV. 

“Un-eat it wherever, I clean up easy. You still gotta eat.” Though he made no move to push the food toward Harley at all, deciding it might be better to let Harley come to it. Meanwhile he started on the orange chicken in his own container, and couldn’t help the happy sounding satisfaction that left his mouth. “It was this show about like… Six teenagers who all worked at the mall… I don’t know dude it was just like, a cartoon sit-com I guess. Sorta like _Total Drama_ if you remember that.”

“Yeah? I’d rather not test that,” Harley shrugs, not moving underneath the blanket although he does eye the chicken fried rice on the table. His own eyes betray him however and end up looking away, back to the TV. He doesn’t move. “Total Drama? I only saw a few episodes of that. My mom got me into other shows. You know. _Jimmy Neutron_ and all that.” He laughs, but then he’s quiet and his lips are pursed. 

The Chinese food box remains on the table, and Harley slowly lets his head drop down. He stays quiet. 

The clicking goes quiet but the remote is thrown into Peter’s lap. Finding the remote in his lap, Peter’s not sure how to take it. He doesn’t go clicking through shows right away, instead vouching to peer at Harley from his place on the very end of the couch. Everything feels really disconnected, he decides, like the jumble of wires on the counter. Trace a wire throughout the mess, only to get tangled up and headed down a different wire, a completely different trail. Just like right now? All he’s getting is either mixed signals or absolutely nothing. 

There’s a chime, and Harley’s phone, face up on the couch next to him lights up with another message. It’s almost on instinct, that Peter’s head turns to look down at the light and he can’t help but catch part of the message...

######  . . . . . . . . . . 

######    
Blocked Number:  
Answer me.

****

**Blocked Number:  
** _I won’t ask again, Har-_

Peter somehow finds it in him to will his attention away and it’s like trying to drag a bus full of people, using only small strips of rope to pull the bus with. He doesn’t need to keep his head away for too long, though. Harley picks up the phone and slowly lifts his head to the bright screen of his phone. It’s almost immediate, how tired his eyes become, how quickly the bags beneath them make an appearance. He shuts his phone off and Peter can’t help but feel his chest tighten. 

It’s quiet for a few minutes. 

“How are you getting home,” Harley suddenly asks although it sounds more like a statement.

It takes a moment for him to think about it, but it quickly dawns on him that he has no real plan for **how** he’s going to get home. The look on Harley’s face though, makes it seem like he wanted Peter gone, and he couldn’t exactly blame him for that. “Uh…” he stammers, coughing very awkwardly as he got up off the couch, padding back across the room to his phone. His initial plan was to call Happy, but it’s late, later than Happy would really want to accomodate for. May was still out of town, so there was no getting ahold of her… He mulls over the situation, worrying his bottom lip with his teeth, thinking about what he could possibly have done. Checking Uber was no help, May would kill him if she found out damn near a hundred dollars missing from her account.

“Would it be okay if… I crashed on your couch…?” Peter asks finally, after minutes of silence from him. He knew that wasn’t what Harley wanted, he knew that the other boy would take umbrage with that option. Honestly though there was nothing else he could’ve done. _Nice one Parker, way to let someone else down,_ the voice in his head chided him. It was almost constant now, hearing his own self-deprecation so clearly in his ears, but there was nothing he could do for it but put on a happy face. “I’m sorry just… Aunt’s out of town and you know how Happy gets… Really I was more concerned about getting you home than I was about getting home myself.” It sounded stupid, but it was true.

“Uh. Yeah.” The reply is short and slightly hoarse. “You can, I don’t care.” He shrugs, turning his head to be aimed towards the hallway. “Or you can have one of the beds if you want. Thanks for that, also. Driving me home. You didn’t have to.” Harley pushes the blanket off of his lap, looking around the side of the couch before reaching around and pulling up a faded marmalade-colored tabby cat. Where it had been, who knows, but it’s there now and it looks like it doesn’t care much to be in Harley’s arms, but it isn’t protesting or trying to get away. “Yeah, Happy. Better not to ask him this late,” his eyes flash up to the clock as he holds the cat. “I’ve uh…” he glances at Peter’s clothes. “I might have some clothes you can borrow.” It’s almost like he’s trying not to let it be seen, but his phone lights up a few more times and he slides it into his pocket.

Peter notices though, but he elects to say nothing, deciding it’d be better to not piss Harley off tonight, considering he had nowhere else to go. “Don’t worry about the clothes I don’t care about wearing the same outfit to school. And don’t worry about driving you, you were in no fit state to drive around.” It occurred to him now, that if he’d just taken Harley back to his own place they wouldn’t be in this predicament. He waves Harley away and walks back further into the house, finding the bathroom and hiding away in it. There was nervousness, tension, and a marmalade cat sitting on Harley’s lap, and for a moment Peter was more than thankful for the Spider powers, because it got rid of his allergies. 

There was an intense beating in his chest, his heart drumming against his ribcage like some obnoxious EDM artist was putting on a set in his chest. He didn’t even need to go to the bathroom he just wanted to get away from the situation, as much as he could anyway. Things felt dizzy and the acidic cling of anxiety, numbing his senses, fuzzing out the sharp details started to hit him. Now was not a good time for this, but it’s not like he had any choice in the matter. Peter reached over and flushed the toilet, just to make it sound like he was actually doing something in there and washed his hands quickly before heading back outside. Just looking at the back of Harley’s head was sending him into another panic, but there was nothing for it now. He was here, he was going to _be_ here for at least the night, and as he sat back down next to Harley, shaking his hands so they’d dry faster, his heart sped up.

It’s dark out. The house is dimly lit, and the moonlight is seeping in through the windows, drapes brought loosely together. The stars are visible, the sky is cloudless and clear tonight, different from the New York City landscape. When Harley finally stands up, the cat follows him at his heels. He walks into a room and a few minutes he walks back out, a wad of sheets in his arms. “Go ahead and sleep on the bed in that room, Peter.” He walks into a different room, walking back out with the cat in his arms instead of the sheets. “You’ll need to wake up early tomorrow, 5-ish, maybe a little towards 5:15. Don’t wanna be too late.” 

Then the boy walks away. 

Peter walks into the room, looking about the space. It’s feels homey, but like it’s missing a spirit. There’s a large bed in the center, headboard up against the wall that Peter’s facing. The nightstand beside it is almost littered with a few knit red robins, a coaster, a clock, and several other trinkets. But in the same breath it’s neat and tidy, there’s a soft order to everything. There’s a picture on the nightstand, and there’s one face that’s recognizable. A young Harley, in the arms of a smiling woman in a yellow sundress. Her hair is a brighter honey color than Harley’s, but they both share the same youthful smile. Harley’s grasping onto the woman and a small girl, if Harley’s ten in this photo she looks about five or six, in a soft pink dress with small butterflies on the fabric. There’s grass behind them, it looks like a picnic and they’ve managed to set up the camera to grab a picture of them all together. 

There are larger looking frames, about the size of printer paper, on the walls. One of Harley, one of the small girl in the pink dress, and another of a man. He looks… serious. But there’s a slight happiness to him. However, the picture isn’t as clean as the other two are. It’s torn, a messy line right down his half, obscuring what his face really looks like from view. The glass on the frame is broken and the picture is crooked. The wood of the frame is chipped. 

Peter eyes the frame of the man for a long time before turning his head to face the bed. It’s topped with a nice quilt of nature-like designs, lined with a lovely golden-yellow and a scene that looks like the woods. He pulls back the covers and crawls into the queen-sized bed, reaching an arm over to the lamp to turn out the light. The dark oak dresser in front of him has more pictures, and the glass of the picture frames glow softly in the ounce of milky moonlight dripping into the room, just between a small opening in the drapes. 

The air is still. Almost stifling with quiet and Peter doesn’t know if he’s thankful or worried he’s shut the door. He can hear his own thoughts buzz quietly in his head, white noise staying at the brim of his ears and surrounding his head like a bubble. 

He turns onto his side. 

Eventually, everything fades into black.

### . . . . . . . . . . . . .

_He searches for the words. A memory of something, anything Tony had said to him. He searches for the advice coming from a subconscious point of himself. He's met with nothing._

____  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _It's alright..._   
> _Come inside,_  
>  _Talk to me._


	6. Time is a Remedy and a Poison

###### Summary:

_Time heals all wounds...  
But it can also create them._

__

_...……_  
_Slowly the poison the whole bloodstream fills._  
_...……_

“Where is he.”

“I… I don’t know, sir.” 

Heels tap lightly against the marble floor. The room is dimly lit, the strength of the lights above to be more… accommodating, comfortable, for the eyes to see it. The auburn hair reflects this light, well aged though not as bright as it used to be. It’s darkened, with time, just like everything else. 

“Time…” The voice is well kept together as the man walks slowly, back and forth, in the office. Soft taps on the marble floor whenever he steps off of the plush white carpet, muted steps whenever he steps back on. He crosses the expanse of the room in a thoughtful, pondering manner. But the aura of the room betrays the front with a deadly poison. The air drips with malice, like a faucet with a steady leak. It’s laced with an air of cunning, like the threads woven into a tapestry. “...Time heals all wounds, Mr. Alexander.” 

There’s a man, in front of the entry door to the office. It’s a well designed office, each item placed with care and taste by presumably an expert. A portrait is on the wall, behind the auburn haired man’s desk. Himself, a woman with hair of honey, and a child no older than five, dressed in a black suit and tie. The auburn haired man currently, is wearing nothing other than a dark green-olive pinstripe suit, over a gold vest, a white shirt, and a black tie with small white spots along it. Mr. Alexander can feel the cold in the air, a cold that the man in the green pinstripe suit can no longer feel. “Yes, sir, it does.” His words are even toned, confident, yet small. However the nervousness is evident in his voice, an undertone so soft that only someone with a well trained ear can hear it. 

The man in the green pinstripe suit hears it as clear as he can see the sunrise every morning. 

“However,” as the man in the pinstripe suit turns his heel to go back over his pacing line, Mr. Alexander tenses, and a faint smile on the pinstripe suited man’s lips is almost easy to miss, “...time can also _create_ them.” 

The tension is heavy in the air, on Mr. Alexander’s end. But the man in the green pinstripe suit continues his slow, casual pace, with nothing but comfort and ease. It’s almost painful Mr. Alexander to watch how gracefully the man walks about. Casually, easily, so nonchalant. But there’s order to each step. A commanding elegance that’s unmistakable and it shakes the man to his core. He fiddles with the triangular cufflinks on the cuffs of his shirt, beneath a nice blue suit. 

“So, tell me, Mr. Alexander.” The man finally stops pacing, to turn to look at the man by the door. “In all your expertise on hacking, tracking. Your self proclaimed confidence in your abilities. I’ve hired you and _trusted_ you to accomplish what I’ve asked. Why haven’t I been met with the expectations _you_ told me you would exceed?” 

The man in the blue suit can feel the back of his neck grow cold, damp. Sticky, sweat against the white color of his dress shirt. “There’s been a minor setback, sir.” 

“Go on.” 

“Um… I’m not quite sure, yet, sir.” 

Silence. For a minute, the clock says, but Mr. Alexander feels it’s been decades of stifling quiet. The clock ticks maddeningly in his ear, constant, growing louder and louder with each passing second. 

“As I was saying,” the man in the green pinstripe suit turns away, walking over to his desk and allowing his hand to trail over the polished wood, feel its texture. Swiping with the grain, rather than against it. “Time also _creates_ wounds, Mr. Alexander. Wounds that can have a bandage placed on them, but without proper care will _fester_ and _rot_ beneath the covering. We’re working together, to prevent this, correct?”

_...……_  
_It's not the effort nor the failure that tired._  
_...……_

“Yes, sir.” Mr. Alexander realizes how much he sounds like a whipped dog. He straightens his posture, forces his eyes to look back at the man in front of him.

“Preventing a wound from festering needs _proper care_. Stitches help to stop the infection. Stitching requires needle and thread. I’ve found my needle,” he raises one hand to himself, “and my thread.” The man with the auburn hair lifts his remaining hand to gesture at Mr. Alexander. “Now we need to thread the needle, Mr. Alexander. You can’t thread the needle, if you don’t find the hole on the needle. You’re searching for that hole, Mr. Alexander. I’ve asked that you thread that needle.” 

“Yes, you have, sir.” The man in the blue suit remains in front of the door. “We’ve found his number, we’ve messaged him. _You’ve_ messaged him, sir. He’s not replying.” 

“And you know where he is?” 

“No, sir.” 

“You have his number, so locate him.” 

 

“Sir, it’s not that simple, he-”

_...……_  
_The waste remains._  
_...……_

The man in the green pinstripe suit raises his arms out, extending them horizontally and lifting them up almost in a welcoming manner. “James! We’re companions, aren’t we? We’ve known each other long enough, after all!” He smiles and laughs, putting his hands back down, and stepping around his desk to walk over to Mr. Alexander. He puts an arm around his shoulder, walking forwards with him just slightly. “You can _make_ it simple.”

Mr. Alexander swallows, and nods. “Yes...I can, sir.” 

“No need for formalities, call me by my name, James. Tell me, what are you going to do for me, to repay what I’ve done for you?” 

He swallows again. The gears in his head are turning, and the sweat on his neck is making itself more… known. James purses his lips, eyes and nose aching, the tips of his ears burning. Each bone in his body feels like it’s about to snap, about to break… he can’t let it. The man next to him glued him back together, stapled each piece back nicely. He’s alive because of this man but he feels he might be dead because of him. 

“I’m going to find your son, Mayor Osborn.” 

Norman’s lips pull into a smile too sweet to be kind. “Good.”

_...……_  
_The waste remains, and it kills._  
_...……_

### . . . . . . . . . . . . .

_Slowly the poison the bloodstream fills. It is not the effort nor the failure tires. The waste remains... the waste remains, and it kills.  
-William Empson_

____  
  



End file.
